


The Fault of Appearances

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Series: The Strangest Frames [1]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Animal Traits AU, BAMF Bilbo, Bilbo is BAMF, Character Death, Dark Bilbo, I expanded Tolkien's world, Kind! Thorin, Non Canonical, Perceptive! Thorin, Sick! Bilbo, crafty bilbo, young! bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 33,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2507879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is not the innocent Gandalf knew, and when he comes to collect Bilbo for an adventure, he finds a much darker, far more shuttered hobbit than he expected. This one harbors secrets.<br/>These secrets will rock everything the dwarves know to be true. It will evolve their perception of the world as it is and as it was before Smaug, including the warg-riding, nomadic honey-and-vinegar race of minotaurs residing where dragons were said to roam, long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Difference of Many and One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the fic is very non-canonical. This is a few facts to get you started.  
> (A) Every Upright (man, elf, dwarf, orc, goblin, troll, Beorn, etc.) has an Animal form.  
> (B) minotaurs are the fifth Upright race, and they, like everyone else, have a part in Smaug's taking of Erebor.

BILBO

 

When they come, they do so jauntily and hungrily. They laugh and joke and talk and sing and very nearly break my dishes and all manner of fragile things but by the grace of Yavana, nothing is anything less than whole when they are done. I begin to think they are not so bad, after all.

When he comes, he does so morosely and hungrily. He’s mocking, insulting my “grocer” appearance while he eats my soup and thinks about nothing but his narcissistic self.

When the contract comes, I don’t faint, but I want to. I want to curl back up and go to sleep. Unfortunately I was raised properly and my mother had ascertained of that. So I sign the contract, and I am with them in the morning when dawn rises, fully prepared to walk off with them. That is not what happens.

I haven’t the faintest idea how this happen, but I do know _who_ this happened, for lack of a better sentence structure. When I get Gandalf alone, he’s going to regret not at least informing of the fact that I would be trooping with a narcissistic asshole as a leader and a bunch of starry eyed gold hunters as companions.

And the fucking ponies. Good grief and Mordor’s bells whose idea was it to have such a tricky thing carry the weight and the life of a body across all of middle earth? Knowing the old wizard’s knack for being unfortunately annoying, it was probably him.

When we break for the night, none wishes to talk to me, and I don’t wish to talk to anyone. There are a few universal truths that have the unfortunance to be in effect. One of them is that if something can go wrong, it will. So finding that I can neither walk normally and not feel like I should be squatting nor can I sit down without wincing. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it is. And it sucks all the dung in the large wheat fields on the outer edges of the Shire.

Evening sees a single pot of stew over a cookfire, being seasoned and thickened with anything and everything they can find. While my stomach protests at both the quantity and the quality, it is not something I’m going to complain about. I am not here to eat like I’ve nothing better to do (which has been the case for a while now).

When the bowl is handed to me, I check inside. Among other things, rabbit, wild potatoes, plus leftover chicken from my smial seem to be the main ingredients. I recognize other things that were previously in my larder. I thank Bombur quietly and eat it without complaint.

“And here I thought you’d have a hard time getting our meager fare down, Master Baggins.” Fili and Kili say in unison. I cast them a droll look. The snide comments have been going on for quite some time and while it’s not necessarily as rude as some of the other things said, I’m not about to invite more.

“I taught myself to cook and had quite the number of mishaps before anything I made even resembled belonging on a table with other dishes and not with the pigs. I have tasted far worse than this journey’s worst meal.”

“Must have been hard, braving the great unknown.” Kili says. A few of the other dwarves have looked up and are listening in.

“Not really.” I say evasively. I don’t like where this line of conversation is going.

“I thought your mother would have taken care to not offend your precious tastebuds.” I freeze. I didn’t see that coming. I tilt my head back so that I am looking at Kili full in the eye.

“Insult my mother again, and you will pay for it dearly.” I can feel the icy challenge in my voice.

“Oi! He’s right, lads. I’m sure she had a good reason!” The twins howl with laughter at Nori’s insertion. I can feel the anger boiling and I know I mustn’t release it. I settle instead for a poker face and open my mouth but twice more.

“Yes, she seemed to be preoccupied with six feet of earth.” The laughter abruptly stops.

“Oh gees, I’m-” Kili starts in.

“Save it for someone who gives a damn.” They try to talk to me until Balin tells them to “get your asses over here” for first watch. I have third watch. Bombur will take the second, and Thorin the first. I settle down in my bed roll and imitate the breathing pattern of falling asleep, and spend the rest of the night staring.


	2. The Thing about Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo doesn't wait for dawn to come.

Third watch dawns peacefully, though not suddenly, as I haven’t slept the entire night. Quietly, I settle with my back to the fire, and my eyes alert for any movement. I don’t know why I have refrained from simply telling them the truth. I have been outside the Shire. I am not innocent. Shadows of the imagination dance a strange dance with real ones.

I feel the log beneath my bum and find myself grateful they don’t know. They wouldn’t trust me if they knew. They would slaughter me. I would slaughter me, too, if I knew. As it is, I am me, so there will be no slaughtering tonight.  

…

_Trolls_ , I think to myself. _Of all the things to lose ponies to, it had to be trolls?_ Confounded dwarfs and Mordor’s bells this is the dumbest idea I’ve been dumb enough to be apart of for the duration of this entire trip and the thirty two preceding years before I ever received that first knock.

I slip gingerly among the ponies, working at their knots while they stamp nervously on my unfortunately large feet. Most days, it’s not so bad. This is one of those days when large feet means large targets. What I didn't take into account was that the ponies would winny at a friendly face.

When this utterly stupid plan has failed, and the half of us have been tied around a spit, and the other half sitting in burlap sacks, I open my mouth.

“That’s rather stupid, you know,” I begin, deliberately keeping my voice firm and bored.  The trolls turn towards me.

“Whot dew yew mean, stupid?”

“Cooking dwarves like that is stupid.” I elaborate dryly from my uncomfortably vulnerable  spot in a burlap sack. I open my mouth and yawn.

“Oi, that fukah ovah theh looks a mighty bit tired.”

“I’m not tired, I’m just bored of you bumbling your way about like you haven’t any common sense.” I yawn again. Thick hints for thick trolls. They look at eachother before the most gluttonous one with the largest bulging belly crouches down so that he’s on my level. Or rather, he crouches so that I can simply speak normally. I’m short standing up but he has no chance of seeing me sitting down. I struggle to stand before his clumsiness gets the best of me.

“Oi! ‘E jus’ yawned again!” The one to the fat one’s left says.

“Leave it, fuckface ‘Ee’s tryin’ ta trick us.” I have, unbeknownst to all, slipped my bindings. All I have to do is open my mouth, and they’ll look at me. They’ll want me, and I’ll fascinate them.

“Yer the fuckface! I wonta know ‘ow ta cook dinna betta.” The troll turns to face me once again.

“Wot’s tha propa way ta cuk a dof?” I tilt my head to the side and smile my most guileless smile.

“Sorry mate, but I can’t tell you that. Not without there being something in it for me, anyways.” Every dwarf in the clearing stiffens at that. I laugh silently to myself. They think I’m going to barter my own survival. I’m not so crass nor cowardly as to do all that.

“Wot do yew want?” The troll asks warily. All eyes are watching me as I say the thing no one expects.

“A game.” The two trolls who’ve ignored me exchange glances. The leader takes a step closer.

“Wot kind of game, meat?” I let my face go as serious as I can make it.

“A simple game. It shouldn’t be too hard for you, since you’re so much bigger and stronger than me…”

“Tell os aboot et!” Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.*

“It’s simple. You let me go and untie the bindings, and then you chase me. Everytime that happens, I have fifteen seconds to get free. If I don’t, I’ll tell you one thing about cooking dwarves. You get time to properly do that thing, and I’ll wait in my sack until you get that thing or complete that task, and we can play again. When i get caught the second time, I’ll tell you the second thing. We can keep playing until you’ve all the things you need for respectable dwarf and hobbit stew.”

“... and suppose we play this… game of yours?”

“Then you get to know all about dwarf soup.” The fattest one looks back at his mates. They nod. He turns to me.

“Very well, meat. Let’s see if yew know as much aboot darves as yew claim te.” In moments I am up, out of the sack, and dancing in between the others. As I goes, I purposely nudges a few of them into different, more useful positions.

I let myself be caught the first time. I'm brought close to the fat one’s face.

“How do you cook darvs?” I cock an eyebrow at him.

“You can’t cook them like that,” here I nod to the spit with all my dwarf not-friends tied to it, “because you lose flavor."

“And if we don’t give a rat’s ass about flavor?” the lead troll says, this close to lowering the spit. I cocks that eyebrow at him.

“Is that not what you’re playing the game for?”

“Wot dew we dew wi’ ‘em?”

“You have to put them back in the bags, but if you injure them, they’ll be ready before the rest of the soup and it won’t taste good.” The troll shoves me back into my bindings and bag before carefully joining his brethren and repeating the procedure with the dwarves on the spit. He turns back to me, and I have again slipped his bindings.

“Now wot?” I jump up and out of my sack, and am out of reach before cocking my head and giving the trolls the most cheekiest, shit-eating grin I can muster at the moment.

“Now we continue with the game. You three have to catch me.” They are off again, the trolls clumsily tripping over themselves in an attempt to catch the me, though they won’t until I need them to.

“Oi! Meat! Thissun’s gettin’ borin’ an’ we’re ‘ungry!”

“Catch me, then.” I jump up on the spit and balance delicately on it, waiting for one of the Trolls to get too close before hurling a knife at his stomach. He keeps coming, but he will collapse within minutes. My aim is correct and they won’t know it’s a stab wound until too late.

I jump on top of the stabbed one’s head as he bends down and slide down his back, hooking the curious hook-like weapon on his back before dodging the fat one. This game just got deadly. With sunrise an hour away, and Gandalf no where to be found, I’ve got to take care of this myself.

The hook finds its way to the fat one’s knee, and he screams and squeals in agony. It is a truly horrible sound, and I was not expecting it. To it’s own kind, the scream wasn’t any worse than any other, but it throws off my balance and wrings in my ears, and it’s in this way that I am caught for the second time.

“I think this game be ovah, meat.” The lead troll leers at me.

“It just… got started…” I say through gritted teeth. The grip is admittedly tighter than last time, but I have adapted to the troll’s screaming.

“You’re ‘urtin’ my own.”

“You were getting bored.” The troll pauses to think about that. Then he squeezes tighter.

“Let’s see if you cook like a dwarf.” The stabbed troll drops to the ground, dead. The leader glances up, distracted, and finds another of my knives in his eye. He drops me, and I swiftly turn to kill the third, still screaming troll.

In a matter of moments, the clearing just went from threatening to death filled.

I start to cut the dwarves closest to me, starting with the Ri brothers, then Bombur, Thorin, Bofur, Kili and Fili, so on and so forth.

Not five minutes later, the sun peeks over the horizon and turns the trolls to stone. As this is my second night in a row with no sleep, I feel exhaustion dragging at my limbs and lean against a tree while the dwarves check each other for wounds.

“Busy night, Master Baggins?”

“Mahal’s balls, Gandalf, of all the times for you to get annoyed and walk off.”

“You seem to have handled it fine.”

“Oh, and I’m sure that was your plan all along.” I am quickly growing impatient with the wizards lack of solidity. There’s very little sarcasm that’s going to not pass my tongue right now.

“Relax, boy, I’ve something interesting to show you all.” So Gandalf makes himself known and leads the dwarves to the troll’s lair, and I trail behind, unwilling to interact. It is only when I sense the elvish blade that I slip towards the cave, wondering what kind of weapon would call out to me so strongly.

 ****It shouldn't surprise me that a weapon would call. I just took three lives with a jovial mask in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The phrase "Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly" is by Mary Howitt.


	3. Bury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo buries a friend, gains a sword, and Thorin becomes concerned.

THORIN

I didn’t see this coming. It’s really not much of a problem most of the time, since there’s Dwalin to knock sense into me when I can’t figure it out myself. But there are days when I wish I was even half as perceptive as my friend and guard. Then I might have seen this coming.

The halfling leans against a tree and watches us check each other over for wounds. I know that troll wasn’t at all gentle with our burglar, and I have half a mind to send over Oin to nag him into sitting still and letting the old healer check over his wounds. But I can’t help but notice how closed off his body language and how haunted memories flit behind his solitude.

Oin approaches me and asks if I’m alright. I shift my attention to him.

“I’m fine, but watch the halfling. I don’t know if he’s been injured and I doubt he’ll sit down long enough for you to check him out.” Oin nods. Bilbo is now on his radar as well.

As dawn breaks and the still-warm troll bodies turn to stone, Gandalf is suddenly here, and I can see the halfling’s face twist into something stony. No doubt Gandalf is getting an earful about not being here. Gandalf approaches me and mine.

“The troll’s hoard must be around here somewhere. I suggest we divest them of treasures they will no longer need. I nod and jerk my head at my group. They, too, make to follow Gandalf. None but the halfling remains, and I let it be for now. I imagine he’s still remembering the barbs of his earlier conversation with my sister sons and Nori. Besides, I know the need to be alone after killing.

The troll’s hoard is, all told, a good hoard, though not all it’s members are valuable. A small child’s doll sits near the pile, perhaps six inches away. It’s rather grief causing to know that a troll’s hoard is comprised of keepsakes from every kill they make.

“Thorin.” Gandalf calls, his hands busy with two shadows. As I step closer, I can see they are two swords, one short and the other my size. I remove the latter from Gandalf’s hand and pull the blade part way out. Damn him. This is an elvish blade. A soft chink is heard as the sword clicks shut.

“Do not cast aside a good sword on account of it’s makers.” Gandalf says, and it takes only a moment to decide that he’s right. Besides, there’s no way Thranduil could have made this particular sword. I turn to the shorter of the swords. As I expected, this blade is elven as well, which makes this a dagger. I know a certain halfling who would fit this nicely.

I take both swords and step above ground again, out of the rot and ruin of the troll’s hoard and home. Bilbo is coming and I silently hold out the sword for him. He takes it.

“My thanks.” His head is slightly tilted to the side as he pulls the blade partway out of its scabbard. He turns it this way and that, and his head follows suit.

I cannot help but study him as he studies the elvish dagger. Blond curls are copper in the dawn light, but they lack part of the luster from when he was, in fact, not playing kill-a-mole with three trolls. They are still endearing as they fall over ears not quite pointy enough to be an elves (thank Mahal). He stands with a soldiers posture- feet shoulder’s width apart and back straight.

Perhaps the oddest thing about him is the fact that he has not Animal traits. I’ve never met a being with no Animal traits. Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur have otter traits of different colors. Mine is a lion and my sister sons are blonde and auburn foxes. Ori is a dear, and his brothers are a panther and a monkey, respectively. Dwalin is a massive bear and Balin is a smaller version of it. Even Oin and Gloin are a monitor lizard and a komodo dragon. But Bilbo’s ears are distinctly hobbit like, and no tail swirls out from his coat. It makes me want to know so much more.

He’s dressed in all close-cut black from neck to ankles, with pants that extend down to his ankles and sleeves to his wrists. Though his feet are bare, his hands are covered by gloves. The coat he wears comes down to his calves and has a large hood. I can see by the stitching that it’s of excellent and foreign make.

Underneath his coat are straps that form an x across his hips and circle his upper thighs. They hold daggers and things of that nature. He reaches around and hooks the sword behind his back, hilt downwards. I clear my expression two seconds before he looks up.

“We leave soon, burglar.” I says quietly before walking back to the troll hoard to help bury it. A minute later, and Bilbo joins the Brothers Ri and I.

An hour later, and we are long gone. Bilbo is, as usual, at the back of the caravan, and when I turn to check on the company, I catch the exhaustion on his face before he wipes it away. Gandalf meets my eyes, and I nod before turning around.

…

HOURS LATER

Gandalf is once again gone, with a promise of being back in a few days, when I am surprised by our burglar once again. A hobbit shout and a horse’s scream has me turning around to assess the problem. Bilbo has been thrown by the pony and the animal itself has broken its leg.

It moans in pain and panic as Bilbo gently runs his gloved hand over its cheek, trying to keep it from struggling and hurt itself more. With no extra medical supplies (much less a way to transport a healing pony),I know the creature cannot come with us. I watch the burglar carefully, and I can tell by his expression that he, too, knows that his mount won’t be coming with us. Still, he croons softly as he looks at me. I nod.

“It’s alright, Myrtle. I’ll make it stop. Shh. It won’t hurt. I promise.” He repeats the litany as Myrtle slowly calms down, her breath even as Bilbo fits his hands in a hold I know all too well. His heart stays calm as he twists as hard and as fast as he can, breaking Myrtle’s neck so that she may not feel pain anymore. He unhooks everything from her with the help of my sister sons, making sure to be as gentle as possible.

“Let’s go.” I say when all the supplies has been transferred and divided among the other horses. Bilbo’s head snaps up.

“I need to bury her.” There’s something in the way he holds himself and the sound of his voice that tells me he wanted to bury the trolls, too. I nod.

“We rest until Myrtle is buried. Bofur, Bombur, Bifur, assist Bilbo.” They nod, find a shovel, and take turns shoveling earth up. They don’t stop until there’s a large pile next to a hole that’s six feet deep. Then, they help Bilbo lower his mount into the ground, there eyes yelling concern for the burglar.

When the pony is finally buried, Bilbo gives a deep bow to the grave. I send Oin over to Bilbo. I can see the refusal on his lips.

“Just do it, burglar. We can’t have you stabbing a lung with a weakened rib because a pony threw you and no one checked you out. I can practically see him thinking before he stands up and follows Oin away from the group. I watch them go and make eye-contact with the healer. Oin will check for bruises from his earlier troll escapade, as well.

When they come back fifteen minutes later, I see Oin nod. He’s alright, then. I order an hour's more rest and don't look for Bilbo's reaction. It wouldn't do to attract his notice so early in the game.

 


	4. Trouble in Threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin sees one of Bilbo's secrets, three problems occur, and Bilbo finds himself on the wrong end of Thorin's tongue.

BILBO

I should have been more careful. I knew the road wasn’t smooth. I felt every rut and bump on my ass, for crying out loud. But I allowed my mind to wander, and now Myrtle is dead. On top of that, my ribs ache from that stupid troll. At least I walk now.

I still lurk at the end of the caravan, but it is easier to travel when I’m not riding. I would ride with a smile if Myrtle could live because of it. After another few hours, evening sets and Thorin begins to cast around for a shelter. My eyes are heavy with tiredness as camp is set up and Bombur goes about the business of cooking. I go to help him, gathering wild carrots and potatoes and onions.

“Master Boggins! How did you know where to find those?” I give Fili and Kili a glare, their fox’s tails swishing from side to side behind them.

“Baggins, we mean.”

“I just know what to look for.” I toss another peeled, washed, and cut onion into the pot and stow the rest for tomorrow. One never knows what they will be without on the morrow.

“Will you teach us?” They say as they sit down to skin the hares they brought down tonight. Bombur cuts them up as he is finished with his own vegetables. I take the gutted carcasses and begin to remove the bones.

“I suppose so.” Tiredly, I take the remains that will not be used and bury them in the woods. When I return, the Company is eating. Bombur hands me a bowl. I nod. Ori and Dori sit on either side of me. Subtly slip pieces of meat into both their bowls. I do not wish to explain to the company why I am not eating my meat.

When I have finished my soup, I volunteer to wash the bowls. They pile into my hands as I take the short trek to the river a quarter mile away.

THORIN

He does not appear pleased with the fullness of the soup, as he keeps slipping meat into the bowls of his companions. I cannot help but think there is something not quite right about our burglar, so after Bilbo sets off for the river to wash the bowls, I give him ten minutes before I follow.

Bilbo is, as I expected, is washing the bowls. His coat has been removed from his shoulders, and his sleeves have been pushed up, his hands bared. My breath nearly catches in my throat. Scars mark his arms and hands. Some of them are randomly placed, but others are deliberate- a mixture of battle and torture. A few speak of poison, and others of infection. There are burn scars of fire and chemical, as well. Where did a hobbit get such scars?

I retreat back to camp before Bilbo is aware of my absence and presence. It takes another hour before he’s back in the cave, handing the bowls off to Bofur to be repacked. His gloves and sleeves and coat are all firmly in place. I understand why he’s so wary around us now. I would be wary too if those were my arms. But I don’t give him more than a glance before I settle down into my bedroll and contemplate the enigma that is Bilbo Baggins.

BILBO

I can taste trouble as clear as day, though it may be Gandalf, who is back with us now. We are but two days away from the trolls when I detect the oncoming visitors, still a few miles away. I switch from a trot to a dead run to catch up with Thorin. He turns to me in surprise.

“What is it, Burglar?” There is aloofness behind his words and a bite to them that I don’t believe he can be rid of.

“There’s trouble a few miles behind and ahead.”

Without warning, Thorin reaches me and tugs me up into the saddle in front of him with a hard pull. I try to relax, but it’s just not going to happen. Not like this, with his broad chest pressed into my back and his arms reaching ‘round me while his voice whispers into my ear.

“What kind of trouble?”

I force myself to calm down as I speak a dreaded word: “Minotaurs.” Thorin abruptly hollers out in Kudzul and before long, the company has left the path, me bouncing around in front of him. Damn riding anything for the time being and all eternity! I turn and look back.

“They have bows!”

“Get back here, halfling!” I let out a bitter laugh.

“Too late for that. Brace yourself!” And I swing myself out of the saddle. My absence causes Thorin to slide forwards, leaving me room to perch on the saddle behind him and backwards. I loose my sword from my waist and use it to parry arrows tipped with Aledane- a poison hallucinogenic derived from a mushroom and otherwise known as a Black Dream. First the dream is sweet, lulling you into accepting the poison into your heart and mind. Once you do, it eats you from the inside out.

The company weaves in between trees, trying to outrun the Minotaurs and their deadly arrows. The bastards are fast, and if they keep up much longer, there will be blood.

The much smaller dwarves and their ponies are more than a match for the bigger, less agile minotaurs. When they are lost, we keep going, knowing that bad things happen in threes. I am only too right. The minotaur pack leaves off as we exit their territory, but the outer defenses kick in, and a green mist chases us.

“Hurry it up! That’s poison!" The fog rolls fast and furious as the company runs as fast as it can. Carefully, I lift myself until I’m crouching in the saddle, eyeing the next riders- Bombur and Bifur. We won’t escape the mist. We won’t escape the heavy dreams, followed by nightmares, and ending in an Alendane overdose, which is comprised of seizures, vomiting, internal bleeding, lung breaking, rib cracking, voice-box-breaking screams. I need to get to the final rider- Dwalin.

“Sit down, Halfling!” I let out another wild bark of laughter.

“No can do, Oakenshield!” I launch myself at Bifur, who isn’t quite fast enough to keep me from hopping to Ori’s pony, Back to Fili and Kili in that order, and finally reaching Dwalin, crouched and clinging to his head as I remove a pouch from my coat and release it. The ash of rabbit bones, when mixed with a few things and burned correctly, is highly effective against Aledane. The Aledane mists begin to lighten and finally turn grey with the ashes rendering it useless.

“Dammit, Halfling! YOU’RE NO USE TO US DEAD!” Thorin yells the minute the ponies stop. He’s wheeled his around to pull up alongside Dwalin and I. I want to fight and argue. I want to tell him what I think about his stupid rock. I want to holler and scream and match him blow for blow. But I am no use dead. Thorin is right. The mist would have had to chase us for another five minutes to catch the hooves of Dwalin’s horse. There were other ways.

I lower my head. “I’m sorry.” Thorin’s jaw grits in anger and I have a sudden flash of a large, white furred individual giving me that same look years ago. But Thorin is not this person, and instead of a punishment, what comes out sounds so protective it nearly makes me run.

“You are to ride or walk with a member of the company at all times, halfling. Furthermore, i never want to see you nearly dying again.” He looks at Dwalin. The dwarf nods.

“Starting with Dwalin.” I nod. I don’t want to sit with anyone, but I want to be a burden even less. That includes arguing needlessly. So it is with nary a word that Thorin departs for the head of the company, eyeing his members and checking his health as they went. I sit stock still and stiff in Dwalin’s arms as the dwarf takes up the reins again and acts as though no one has been chased by minotaurs and mists.

But as I said before, trouble comes in threes. It doesn’t surprise me to hear the warg’s howl not long after we make it back to the path. I don’t try to wriggle out of Dwalin’s grip. At the moment, it would be more harm than good. The first warg scouts fall to Kili’s bow. They are but the prelude the orc pack that chases us. I jerk and crane my head to see.

“Relax, lad! You’ll get shot!” Dwalin shouts at me.

“The minotaurs are still here! They must have ridden through the mists before I disabled it!”

“What do you mean before?!”

“They are impervious to it when it’s potent, but highly susceptible when it isn’t!”

“Lad, of all the things for you not to say!” Dwalin hunkers farther forwards as he urges his pony along after the others.

The order has changed. Dwalin still rides at the back, but Fili and Kili have taken up positions slightly in front and on either side of him. The same formation keeps repeat some yards ahead, with Bifur in the middle and his brothers on the side. Then there’s Ori in the middle with the Brothers Ri to his left and right. At the front of the column, the formation is backwards, with Thorin in front and Oin and Gloin on either side and behind him.

As trees continue to breath us deep and hold us fast, we run into the most disastrous of problems- the orcs are gaining on us. Paws pound against earth as wargs snap at Dwalin’s mount’s hooves. I feel sick, as I rarely maintain contact with anything, and wargs are not my favourite beast.

Then I smell the blood, and what I’ve been holding in check for quite some time slips loose- jarred by the lack of bracing.

**…**

_He doesn’t remember how long it’s been. Hell, he barely remembers why he’s here in the first place. Grief, for all that it should have been alive and strong inside him still, is but a distant memory._

_He hears the clip clop of heavy hooves and flinches back, jarring his painfully skinny back against the bars of the cage and dragging the manacles against his much abused and bloody wrists. The door to his cage is unlocked with a key and it screams open._

_Bilbo instantly cringes down to clamp his hands over his ears. His shoulders shake in pitiful terror as his chain is unhooked from the outside of the cage and he’s dragged through it. He doesn’t look up, just hunches his shoulders again in anticipation. The blow, however, never comes. Instead, the hand that has only ever dealt him blows gently rubs over his fuzzy head._

_Bilbo knows that this is the end._

**…**

 


	5. Separate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is separated from his group.

BILBO

We’ve left the orcs behind quite some time ago, and now make our way through a different forest on foot. The ponies have bolted. It’s as we walk through this forest- down to what wasn’t tied to said ponies- that Radagast makes his appearance. Gandalf leads him away to talk to him, and though I shouldn’t, I can hear the former tell the latter of a necromancer.

Then we hear the howl.

Gundabag wargs, Gandalf says.

Rosgabel rabbits, Radagast says. Then the old man is gone, away as the bait while the real quarry makes our way onwards as inconspicuous as possible. Unfortunately, the false prey idea isn’t completely successful, and Kili again takes out the scouts. It’s futile in the end, though, because they catch up to us on planes of jutting outcroppings and dry, summer gold grass.

I feel a stirring in my bones unlike any other, and I fight to hold it down as Thorin shifts into a fully lion form and attacks the nearest orc, while in the process sweeping up Ori. Dori has shifted into his panther form, Dwalin and Balin into their bear forms, and Nori into his monkey form.

As for me, I feel animal breath on my neck and I run as I did as a child when I proved just a bit too slow to get away from other hobbits of my age group and younger- in leaps and bounds. Dust kicks up as both my hands and feet hit the ground at the same time and I jump away from whatever is behind me. But it is not quite enough.

From the left, an orc swerves from the left, past my peripheral, and in front of me. Its snarling rider guaranteeing hobbit shishkabob. I dart to the right and keep going, but there’s another, and another, and it doesn’t take long before I’m standing among a ring of orcs and wargs. I stay crouched, ears and eyes and nose open to everything.

I try to listen for the company, but to no avail. The plane is large, and the outcroppings are sadly view blocking and sorry in their protection. I know now that I have no choice. As the first warg with its orc rider lunges, I open my mouth, and it falls sideways, it’s rider toppling and caught under its dead weight. In a second, I’m on top of the monstrosity and he’s dead too in a flash of heat.

Another attacks but I’ve loosed Sting, and I lunch forwards to bury it in the heart of the second orc before fastening my legs around the neck of his mount. The rest don’t give me a chance as they lunge at once, and with the added bulk of the warg, it’s only a matter of seconds before I’m knocked away and fighting for my life with my back on the ground. I feel a sharp sting, but it’s a bit distant now, just as the feathered arrow of excellent make that thuds into a warg’s skull is distant.

I keep fighting until it’s horse hooves that thud against the ground. Only then do I allow myself to return, and when I do, I see elves. Carefully, warily, I pick myself up off the ground and cast them all a glare, daring any and all to come at me. It is then that I catch sight of the most regal elf in the pack. He dismounts and walks towards me, hands held out in apparent harmlessness. I back up anyways.

“Master Hobbit, we mean you no harm.” My jaw stays shut as I profile everyone of them. They say no harm, but they come in a pack. It could be because of the orc pack, but I’m not taking chances. It’s then that I realize who the elf that spoke is. I cock my head to the side.

“Lord Elrond.” Surprise registers in Elrond’s face.

“Yes… and may I ask how you know that, master Hobbit?”

“Books.” I say by way of explanation. There’s no way in Mordor I am going to tell him how I really came to know of his existence. Elrond smiles.

“Than you know we aren’t here to hurt you.” Smart. Real smart.

“Actually, I don’t.” Reputation alone is not enough to make me lower my guard.

“I assume you were travelling with a group of thirteen dwarves, no? They should be arriving at Rivendell around now.”

“And?” Several of the elves tense. I cast them a cursory glance. Elrond’s mouth opens to say something else, but suddenly, the all but forgotten pain in my side increases exponentially and I drop to one knee and cough. Blood spatters in the already dirtied grass.

Another cough shakes my system as I push myself up and away from Elrond, who has come closer. I miss Elrond’s nod, and the cloth that suddenly covers my nose and mouth barely registers. The dark does, though.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I need to know what you all say!


	6. The Elves, the Thorin, and the Weeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is disgruntled, Bilbo is sick, and Elrond is secretive.

THORIN

Stupid flipping elves and their damn weeds! The salad on my plate has turnips, of all things! I finish my meat (deer) and glance around. The rest of the company has yet to finish their food (or rather, the food that they’ll eat), so I slip down and away before anyone notices my absence. I head down the hall and turn corners until I find myself in a familiar stretch of corridor and tread with silence until I reach what I’m looking for: the healer’s hall.

As usual, it’s empty, so I’m uninterrupted while I find and make my way over to Bilbo’s bed. The hobbit is asleep, his head cradled in a fluffy white pillow, face sallow from blood loss, eyes dark from lack of sleep.  He’s too exhausted to wake up, thankfully, and so not even he can bother me while I watch him, trying to figure out how I managed to loose the halfling.

There’s a bandage wrapped around his leg and hidden beneath the blankets. His hair is combed and conditioned so that it’s been returned to its former curly glory. In sleep, his face is peaceful. It has taken until now to realize how tense the Halfling is all the time.

We’ve been here for two days, and Bilbo has yet to wake up. I can almost sense the secret the elves are keeping moot about. Yesterday, when Elrond told us the orc poison has a longer-lasting effect on Hobbits, an elven healer glanced at another: the universal sign for THIS MAN IS NOT TELLING THE WHOLE TRUTH!!! BEWARE!!!

I sigh and reach out to brush my hand over those burnished curls.

DURION

Master Oakenshield does not seem to be aware of my presence, and so I take this opportunity to watch. He’s very gentle with my patient, yet by all accounts thus far he’s simply looking after his company.

From the way he moves, I gather he’s slipped down here while no one was watching. This seems confirmed, as he departs shortly after, an unreadable look on his face. It is only then that Bilbo begins to stir with the familiar beginnings of something that can’t be good no matter which view it is looked at from.

Quickly, I stride through the curtain that previously concealed me and snatch up the bucket hidden under Master Baggins’ bed and just barely position myself in time. Less than a second later, Bilbo heaves up out of the bed and sideways so that his face and chest are hanging off the side of the bed and directly over the floor and bucket that I’ve placed between the two.

I rub a soothing hand over his back as Master Baggins’ body spasms and he vomits black bile into the bucket. After the third time, he begins to slip into an unrestful sleep. I ease him back onto the bed. I need to tell my King Elrond that Master Baggins is worsening.

“Don’t.” The weak scratchy voice of the previously sleeping hobbit has me turning around from where I stepped away.

“Don’t what?” I ask.

“The…” he stops to breath, “... vomiting will stop... before noon… on… the morrow… don’t tell them… of it…” Master Baggins slips away to the dreamworld. This time I really do hurry to my King.

…

“My King.” I say with a bow. Elrond looks at me and nods motionlessly before turning back to the dwarves. They, in turn, ask after Master Baggins’ health. He assures them before excusing himself, and I fall in line behind him. We wend our way through the many corridors and halls until we reach Master Baggins’ room.

“How is he?” My King says, eyes on the small form in the infirmary bed.

“He’s getting worse, but he says the vomiting will before noon tomorrow.”

My King falls silent, gaze on Master Bilbo.

“And Oakenshield?”

“He’s snuck down here a few times.” My King nods.

“See to it that he doesn’t know of Master Baggins’ vomiting.”

“Yes, My King.” He departs, and I take care of the bucket of vomit, give Master Baggins a broth that will hopefully bring down his fever, and make sure he won’t get trapped in the blankets if he wakes up while I’m not there.

BILBO

_He can see the leaves as they sing and sigh on the trees, lovely autumn song washing over his ears. It entices him to wander farther away into that foreign place right outside his usual stomping grounds. He feels as though at any moment he’ll step through a curtain of autumn and find himself in a fairy’s home._

_His eyes are wider than the already large orbs are. His face is open, and happy- unguarded. He only wears a pair of breeches that cut off at the knee. His adrenaline is keeping him warm._

_Then he sees it. On the other side of the pool he’s come to is a long curtain of moss with an odd amount of vibrant autumn leaves hanging like the vines of sweet things and little trinkets that decorated his home on his sixth birthday. It is a fairy’s home, and Bilbo wishes to enter._

_He is an impulsive and wandering child. It takes only a moment’s hesitation before he dives in the pool, his tail flicking around behind him as icy water splashes across his skin. No matter. So long as he’s still moving he’s fine. He makes it to the other side in record time, though, and hurriedly pushes aside the mossy curtain. As he passes through, his shivering body makes him clumsy, and he stumbles, legs frosted over, eyes slightly less bright with wonder._

_The floor is earthen and as he trips over it, droplets of cold water form dark spots against the ground. He just barely pulls up in time and finds himself face to rough wood face. An earthen fairy. In awe, Bilbo simply watches as that creature takes both child hands in her own and leads him over to a chair by a blazing fire place. She pushes him down into it, and he complies easily, eyes still glassy as they take in that exotic face._

_He is too busy watching that he doesn’t notice when the flames grow to hot. They singe him before he thinks to pull away. The fairy, who was across the room a moment ago, pushes him hard in the chest and Bilbo screams as the fire pierces his skin like a hundred tiny daggers._

_He reacts quickly after that and throws himself past the magical creature, out into open air, and jumps off the ledge and back into the icy water. It is only then that he realizes how sluggishly he’d really been moving. He begins to sink as his little chest is filled with the ache of no oxygen. He struggles and stops when he understands that he can’t move at all._

_Bilbo raises his eyes to the surface, and cries frozen tears as he realizes he won’t ever be coming home. The face of the wood fairy swims into view and Bilbo cries all the harder as he hears his final sentence._

_“ditëlindjen lumtur shtatë , një pak.” Happy Seventh Birthday, little one._

 


	7. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo leaves his sick bed and walks straight into a question he has no choice but to answer.

DURION

True to his word, Master Baggins is fully awake and eating by dawn. Unfortunately, not only does he wake by dawn, throw up once more, and cease for good, but he also wishes to get up. Confisticated Hobbits! Master Baggins has refused to sit still for longer than five minutes for the entire damn time he’s been awake and strong enough to open his mouth.

Come lunch, when My King slips in to see him, Master Baggins is in something of a pout. That basically means he’s not talking to me.

“Master Baggins.” My King says as he pulls aside the curtain. His regal bearing has Bilbo tense and ready to run. I get ready to chase.

“I’m told you are quite… energetic this morning.”

“I am.”

“Is there any particular reason why?”

Master Baggins is silent as he considers his answer.

“I don’t like laying about.” Elrond glances at me.

“A moment please, Healer Durion?” I nod and bow.

“My King.”

BILBO

Contrary to popular opinion, I am not weak (and the teasing does not make me any stronger, for those of you who won’t shut the hell up). In truth, I want to stay in this bed and sleep, but Elrond is probably coming up with excuses to keep my companions away enough for me to actually recover.

But since I’ve got things to do (and dwarves to outmaneuver), I’ve asked Elrond for a cane so that I can walk unaided. When it arrives, it is a smooth, sleek piece of weighted black. I practice walking with it until I am just as quiet as I always am.

I draw a deep breath down into my gut, release it, and reach for the curtain at the room’s door.

THORIN

He uses a cane. I watch him as he slips into the dining hall in time for lunch. No one has noticed him yet (Gandalf was right on the whole sneaking thing) and he makes no noise as he enters the room. Most of my men have to stop themselves from jumping.

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

“Bilbo!” Kili’s down from his seat and he’s got his arms wrapped around the healing hobbit before anyone else thinks to act (except Fili. He’s right there next to him).

“Bloody hell, Kili. I’m not made of stone.” Bilbo grits out. My dwarven nephew’s arms relax just fractionally.

“I missed you.” He says as he lets Ori and Fili get in there hugs. Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur are next, their earth toned otter tales still behind them. In that quick interlude, I realize that, though gentlehobbit he may be, Bilbo is prone to cursing. He just keeps a handle on it most of the time.

His black cane helps him to stand, but it does nothing when he tries to avoid having his curls disrupted and ruffled. I huff in amusement as he tries to escape Dwalin’s and Balin’s version of a hug. Kili and Fili glance at each other, and I can just feel the headache coming on.

“Enough.” I say, after Bilbo says “Aule’s balls” for the third time due to just how tight dwarven hugs are. “Let the halfling eat.” Bilbo huffs out a sigh of relief as a chair is pulled out for him and our burglar slips into it, a hand trying to smooth down his messy curls.

“So then,” Bilbo says, knowing that the dwarves are either going to tell him themselves or he’s going to ask it, “enjoying the salad?” He has a small smirk on his face as they groan about the damn weeds and the copious amount of them.

“We’re dwarves,” Kili says, by way of explanation, “we eat meat.” Bilbo’s smile widens a bit, but I can see him shift in his chair. I flash back to the many campfires. No matter how thin the soup was, Bilbo was always slipping pieces out of his bowl and into that of whoever was sitting next to him. In fact, the morsels were all meat.

I remember how vague he is when he speaks of himself, how he doesn’t much like to talk about personal things. It occurs to me that the journey wouldn’t be so hard on him (and I would have an intact thief, thank you very much) if my company knew him better. So I ask a question he can’t avoid answering.

“You don’t eat meat, do you, Burglar?” Bilbo freezes, his eyes flickering to mine and then settling on my cheek.

“How did you know?”

“When we camp, you keep slipping pieces of it from your bowl and into someone else’s.” The table is silent for a moment, and then it erupts in chatter.

“I’m not trying to be rude, but there’s barely enough to eat most nights. Why would you eat less?” Kili asks the question on everyone’s mind and mouth, and they all quiet to hear their burglar’s answer.

Bilbo’s lips purse. He blinks once, twice. His head cocks to the side in a way that I find endearing. Then he answers.

“I can’t actually eat meat.” They look at eachother.

“Why?” Fili chimes in from his place three seats down from Bilbo, right next to me.

“Several unfortunate things involving some very malicious neighbors.”

“Like?” Fili prompts.

“Lobelia Sackville-Baggins gave me food poisoning to keep me from going to Took Hall to settle my inheritance. She was after Bag End. The way she gave me food poisoning was to put a bit of spoiled meat in a stew. It didn’t end well.” They all looked at each other.

“Then what happened?”

“I went anyways and told her where she could shove her “mourning stew.” The table was dead silent.

“Mourning who, Bilbo?” I see his gaze slide to the table to the right of me.

“My mother.” Well then, the halfling has felt pain before after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Sorry it took a bit (writer's block).  
> Tell me what you think in the comments, please!


	8. His Weak Spot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kili and Fili discover what Bilbo considers and unfortunate chink in his armor, Thorin gets a talking to, and Bilbo learns a thing or two.

BILBO

We left the elvish stronghold three days ago and have come upon a forest.

Apparently, when you’re me, you get to be petted. Alot. Our ponies trot along the beaten shadowed trail as we pick our way through woods on the eve of the second day since our goodbyes were said to Elrond and co. Every now and then, someone tries to touch the top of my head. It’s annoying.

“Bilbo! You’re not seriously considering walking to Erebor, are you?” Kili and Fili call out in unison. I give them a look.

“You aren’t seriously considering riding to Erebor, are you?” It takes all of two seconds for them to start laughing. I don’t know why. I wasn’t being funny. I tilt my head up to take in the view.

I walk at the very back of the column, so the dwarves nearly blend into the forest. Arching trees surround us, whispering and sighing at the slight, freezing breeze. Evening approaches quickly, but I can tell by the fact that no one has begun to look for a shelter that the dwarves’ sense of the weather is impaired by the trees.

I pick up my trot into a dead run and reach the front of the column where Thorin rides quickly. I slow back to a trot.

“What is it halfling?”

“It will rain on the hour.” Thorin glances up at what can be seen of the grey sky through the trees before turning to Dwalin. I slow to a walk until I am once again at the back of the company. Presently, the company halts under a particularly thick copse of trees.

I don’t wait. No sooner have I unloaded my things from my pack horse do I trot off into the woods, plucking up dry branches and pieces of kindling for a fire. When my arms are full to bursting I walk back to camp just as the first fork of lightning flashes across the sky.

I add my armful to the small pile next to the already burning fire.

By now, Fili and Kili will have started hunting.

“Bombur. Do you know which way masters Fili and Kili went?” The big cook gestures to the south, so I head north with a few empty bags in hand, casting about in the undergrowth for what I’m looking for. Wild strawberries bloom on the vines underneath the taller bushes, and so I pick only the ripe ones, and leave the rest for someone else.

I smile. There are all kinds of fruit trees here. I try not to be greedy as I pick through them. I don’t want to hurt them by taking too much.

I return to camp, bags heavy with fruit, dinner, a deer, has already been cooked.

“What have you got, Bilbo?” Bofur asks, half finished carving in his thick fingers. I show them, and they begin to laugh.

“Trust you to find fruit.”

“This is a ripe forest,” I say with a shrug. Places like this used to be my haven. I know one when I see it.

“Hey, Bilbo?” Bombur asks. I turn to look at him and, next thing I know, I’m flat on my back and struggling like a madman.

THORIN

I watch in partial amusement as my sister-sons pin the halfling down and simultaneously try to ruffle his curls. Bilbo, though, is a strong fighter (for a hobbit) and looks like a wild thing. The company’s begun to laugh as they cheer on either Fili and Kili or Bilbo.

“You really just going to hang out there, Bilbo?” I hear Bombur call out.

“Go on, you two! Don’t let him throw you off that easy!”

The situation escalates until a low, vibrating purr escapes from the chest of none other than Bilbo Baggins. Fili and Kili stare down at Bilbo’s head as their fox tales begin to swish back and forth in total glee. There eyes meet across Bilbo’s still struggling body before Kili begins rubbing Bilbo’s head, and the purrs just get deeper.

The jests and cheers go on until Bilbo gets even wilder and kicks one foot up and cracks Kili in the jaw. This stuns the both of them enough that they can’t keep the wild animal pinned between them, and Bilbo is quite suddenly vaulting over the ring of dwarves and up into a tree.

I look up and watch him move a bit like a squirrel. It’s amusing, really, the way he clings to the branch. His eyes are blown wide with adrenaline and- I kid you not- fear. That surprises me. Why exactly do trolls not do a damn thing but my sister sons wrestling makes him run?

“Is this going to continue for very much longer, My Lord?” I glance at Dwalin as he watches the trees.

“I’m still thinking on that,” I say, carefully keeping my voice calm. I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts.

Dwalin falls silent, and we both watch the uproar. It seems I’m the only one who’s noticed the fear. I let my gaze fall to my fox-type nephews and take another drag on my pipe. I will need to refill it before I can smoke any more. But first, I have a hobbit to deal with.

I stand and set the pipe on the wooden stump I’d been using a moment ago. Then I cast another glance at my nephews, who are on the verge of shifting.

“Fili. Kili. Leave the hobbit alone.” They watch me.

“But he purred, uncle!”

“I don’t care. He’s in a damn tree. Leave him alone.”

“But-”

“Leave. Him. Alone.” I still have to get him down from the tree because, as a member of my company, I cannot, in good faith, leave him up there all night long. My sister sons finally slip away as I approach the tree and look up. It is only when I shift to my feline eyes that I can see the hobbit up there in the dark.

I slip my gloves off and let my hands partially shift so that I have claws in place of fingernails. From there it is a few moments until I am in the tree, but Bilbo is already gone.

“Burglar. That’s enough.”

“I’m fine up here.”

“I didn’t ask if you were fine. It’s time to come down.”

“...”

“Burglar…”

“...”

“One… two… three…”

“I’m not coming down.” Bilbo says. I sigh.

“You will be ready to go with the rest of us or you can ride with Dwalin for the next week.”

“...”

“Very well, Master Oakenshield.” Bilbo falls silent, and I check that no one is beneath me before I jump from the tree and land on my feet. My hands shift back, and I slip my gloves into place.

I sit down next to Dwalin, recover my pipe, and re-stuff it.

 

…

 

It is one in the morning, and my turn to watch. I am back on my stump, and the camp is dim and quiet, the fire banked for the next morning. I practice blowing smoke rings, eyes scanning the forest.

Though I am fully aware of my surroundings, the voice that speaks surprises me.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Bilbo treads softly to his bag and pulls out his beadroll. Within five minutes, he, too, is asleep. I go back to watching the forest, knowing that Master Baggins will be up before my sister sons to avoid being petted.

…

We ride steadily, and when I turn around, I can see Master Baggins at the back of the company, like usual. He’s trotting again, his horse bearing some of the things usually on Bombur’s pack.

I glance up. Last night, the storm abated for a while but it looks like it will open up again. A crack of lightning is closely followed by the boom of thunder and it looks like it will be a repeat of last night, except the fact that we’ll all be trudging through it. The good thing is that the storm won’t really become a pain in the ass until we leave this forest.

I turn again to check on the company, an idea forming in my mind. When I catch the burglar’s eyes, I jerk my head for him, and he sprints across damp earth.

“Yes?” I check him over. He doesn’t look too tired.

“Have you ever scouted before?”

“No.”

“Well today you’re going to learn.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Okay.”

“Dwalin. Lead for a while.” I dismount and Dwalin takes the reins. Bilbo and I pick up our pace until we’re a good distance away. I don’t think we’ll run into trouble here, so this is an excellent place to learn the basics of scouting.   

“There’s three things you’re looking for if you’re a scout.” I can see by the way he’s watching me that I’ve got his unfailing attention.

“The first one is tracks. Orc tracks, rabbit tracks, it doesn’t matter. Tracks will tell you everything you want to know about who’s where.” We spend the next hour like this, with me showing Bilbo things to notice (though I am very sure he notices everything) and Bilbo’s eyes following my every movement. I wish I could get my sister sons that interested in what I have to teach them.

After an hour, I head back to the rest of the company. When I reach them and remount my ride, Dwalin gives me a long, measured look.

“What is it?” I say quietly. Whatever he’s going to say, it isn’t going to be good.

“Bilbo.”

“What about him?”

“I was just wondering if you’re going to make a choice soon.” I glance at him, then back at the road.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you like him or don’t you?”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

“Maybe, but he deserves to know.”

“Why, pray tell, does he need to know how I feel?” Dwalin guffaws before he answers.

“You not telling him is the reason why he’s so skittish all the time.”

“What does one have to do with another?”

“You don’t want him walking for his safety, but you criticise everything he does. You personally took the time to teach him to scout, but let your nephews chase him up a tree. Yer not just confusing him. You’ve got the whole Company thrown off course.” Dwalin’s head is ducked the way a bears would be.

“He’d calm down and get to know us if you’d pick a position and stick to it.” I give a small half smile.

“You seem to think the “whole Company” needs a course in the first place.” Dwalin scoffs and shakes his head.

“They care about your opinion. In some cases, they’ll seek it out before they come to their family for the advice. Bilbo’s treatment literally depends on how you perceive him. Maybe they don’t need a course, but they need you to have one they can follow.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. I’ve met people like Bilbo before. You’ll only get one shot with him. I suggest you make a decision before he decides for you.” Dwalin drops back to Balin and picks up a conversation with his diplomatic brother. Maybe he is right and I do need to decide whether I like the hobbit or not. Either way, it still isn’t anyone’s business.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter this time, guys! Please don't forget to comment.


	9. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets sick. Utter fluff.

****

THORIN

My nephews and Bilbo are scouting again, which I believe he likes because I’ve told both of them that they will not pet Bilbo while they’re scouting on pain of Shit Trench Duty for two days. It came with much whining but quickly quieted down. It was worth it.

I now have a scout that actually understands how to scout.

Now if only this blasted rain would let up. We left the forest nigh on three days ago, and since then the sky’s decided to piss on us all. I know most of my men don’t mind it, so at least that’s not a problem. My nephews, though, have begged to stop (so they can try to make Bilbo purr again)

It is only hours later, not long after Bilbo has taken his place at the back of the company once more, do I call for a halt. The cave Bilbo told me about is the most suitable place for a good distance, and evening draws early in a storm.

My men sit and laugh and talk in the dryness of the cave. I watch as quietly as Bilbo does. He sits next to Bombur, chopping up leftover vegetables and chucking them into a pot. Before long, Fili and Kili return with a deer between them.

Bilbo still refuses to sleep before Fili and Kili do, so more often than not, he tries to take guard duty. I’ve let him. There’s no use in having two people up for no reason. Now, as we sit around the fire, Bilbo does not linger.

With Bombur at his back, Bilbo doesn’t have to worry about the purring thing or the top of his apparently sensitive head. He might sit with Bifur after dinner or wash the bowls and pot or even mend his clothes. What he won’t do, however is sit with my nephews. Not with them knowing his weak spot.

Normally, he tries to sit well away from everyone if isn’t Ori or the Cousins Ur, and while that is odd, he is free to make his choice. Over the past week, any time Fili and Kili have stood, Bilbo’s watched them, turning where he sits to make sure he isn’t surprised.

The rain- constant, wet, waterlogging, mind-clogging rain- has taken its toll, and tonight, Bilbo is exhausted. He’s in his bed roll early, next to the mouth of the cave. His body is curled around itself, and his golden curls are not visible.

It’s my turn to take watch, and I almost wake him. However, I need an alert scout tomorrow, so I leave him be. The fire, banked for the night, has mostly died, so I dismiss whoever is trying to leave with a shake of my head.

“Uncle!” the whisper in the dark draws my attention. Huh. I didn’t realize that Kili was the one doing the creeping. I’d say he’s up for a late night prank, but there’s urgency in his voice. I weave through the bodies until I reach him. He just points.

The Burglar has tossed off the thin blankets and curled into a tighter ball than can possibly be comfortable. He’s shivering and sweating and his breath is coming in shallow gasps. His hands clench and unclench around the thigh that was wounded with the orcs outside the Last Homely House. It’s obvious to me he’s running a fever.

It’s a good thing Oin has the second watch of the night. I reach down to gather him close, but he does it for me, automatically locking his unconscious arms around my neck in a vice. His face is buried in the furs of my shoulder, and his legs find purchase in the hidden belt underneath my coat.

I reach up and lay a hand on his back to pull him off when a voice stops me.

“When Hobbits get sick, they automatically reach out to the closest warm creature.”  Gandalf says from the mouth of the cave- a mouth I just turned from.

“Then you take him.”

“I can’t. You’ve already picked him up. You’ll be stuck with him until morning.” Gandalf says merrily. Blasted wizard.

He sits quietly while I wake up Oin. The doctor picks himself up and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“He has a fever. And he’s very clingy.” I say by way of explanation.

“Well let me see him.”

“Gandalf says I can-”

“I can make him let go for a short while, but it won’t bode well for him if you don’t stay.” I nod.

Gandalf  looms closer as Oin gets his medicinal bag and I sit back down on the (dry) log that had been left here. When Oin is ready, the Wizard’s long, spindly fingers thread into Bilbo’s hair… and just like that, he curls back into a ball, hands resting against my chest instead of clutching at me for dear life. I hold him still while Oin does what he may.

“He should be fine in a few days, but I’m all out of the herb needed to treat fever. Not only that, but I’d have to wake him up.” I understand. There isn’t a dwarf in the company who doesn’t know of Bilbo’s sharp tongue.

I glance down at Bilbo. It looks like he’s sleeping with me, tonight. I undo my coat and slip the hobbit inside before I take off my boots and slip into my own bedroll. I look down. Unfortunately, Dwalin is right. I do need to choose.

 

…

Come morning, I rise early and slip a now perfectly fine Bilbo back into his own bedroll before heading to the shit trench (that Fili and Kili have to fill in because they did, indeed, try for Bilbo’s hair. They were past due to report, so I sent Dwalin to see to the problem. He came back with two glum nephews and one jumpy hobbit.)

When I return, everyone is still asleep, and we don’t need food because there is still leftover deer. Firewood it is. Gandalf watches me go. When I have accepted that there will be no dry wood, I return to camp.

Ori is up drawing something. Gloin and Oin are up too. Oin catches my eye- a silent yae or nae on the burglar’s health. I nod. I stoke last nights fire with the last of the wood that was already here. Gandalf looks on as all but Bilbo raises themselves.

Kili sits beside me.

“Why is he still asleep?” I can hear the undertone of worry in his voice.

“Fighting fevers tends to leave one exhausted.” I say pensively. He was asleep (I hope) by the time I settled down with Bilbo. So he’s probably been shifting around all morning trying to find a subtle way to ask me. I shoot him a look.

“Shit trench.” Kili’s shoulder’s slump as he lopes off towards the front of the cave to talk to Fili.

I wait until half an hour before it’s time to leave before I nod at Oin to wake the burglar. He seems startled to have slept so long, as he’s usually the first one up. His movements are hurried as he prepares himself quickly, dashing off to the shit trench after shoving food down his throat. He comes back with river water on his hands and face, dampening his curls.

He heads straight to his sleeping roll and straps the balled up cylinder he didn’t sleep in to the top of his pack. The pack goes onto the horse he doesn’t ride along with a few of the heavier iron pans. Then he moves to the back of my company. Even so, I can see he’s still a little light headed.

I catch Oin’s eyes again. He will be looked after. All the same, I decide he won’t be scouting today.

Unfortunately, Ori had his turn as well. I could have Dwalin do it, but he’s my bodyguard, not my scout. So now, the only one left who would do the best job is Fili and Kili. At least if they’re scouting, I won’t have to bother  with their fascination and determination to make Bilbo purr.

DWALIN

Slowly, Bilbo begins to lag. I glance at Thorin. I don’t think he’s realized how far back the halfling is, but Bilbo won’t last long like this. I open my mouth.

“Thorin.” I look at him as his blue gaze flicks to mine and back to the road.

“What is it?”

“Bilbo’s lagging.” As he’s done many times on this journey, he turns to look back. I look as well and realize he’s grown worse. His face is bloodless as well as strained. Every now and then, he gives a lung-straining cough. His head dips when he does it. Gandalf walks beside him, half stooped, being rebuffed (probably politely) in his attempts to help our burglar.

By now he’s fallen far enough back for me to have to strain to see this. Thorin turns back around.

“Have him ride with you. He had a fever last night. I’m willing to bet it’s making a reappearance.” I nod once before wheeling my pony around and making my way to the back of the company. I don’t break pace until I get to where Bilbo’s bent over with another cough.

I wheel my pony sharply before sliding down and kneeling in front of him. Bilbo glares.

“None of that, Master Baggins. You’re to ride with me today.”

“But I don’t-”

“Thorin said.” I see him look to the side and take advantage of the moment. Wrapping my arm around his waist, I propel us both back into the saddle. I nod at Gandalf, who gives me a crinkled smile. I get a move on and recover my old spot quickly.

For the rest of day, Bilbo is quiet and unresponsive. It takes me hours to realize he’s asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I just wrote an entire fluftional chapter.  
> Please comment.


	10. His Atlas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves learn a bit about Bilbo and a bit about his culture. Thorin puts name and face to his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! First of all, I'd like to thank all of the commenters and kudo'ers out there for your support. Second of all I would like your help with the story! See the end for what I'm talking about.

DWALIN

 

When we stop for lunch, some of our number gather round. Oin, for one, makes an attempt to check Bilbo’s forehead. Since Bilbo is prickly when he’s sick, he’ll only sit still for so long. Time has run out. Oin does not get the chance to check him out.

When it is time to go again, Bilbo again slips to the back of the company, easily picking up his regular pace. It’s hard to tell that just hours ago he wasn’t  well enough to ride on his own, much less trot.

He goes with Gandalf, patiently listening as the wizard attempts to break the silence that seems to flock to and engulf him. I take my place next to Thorin. I can’t help but look back every now and then, though. Somehow, the Hobbit has grown on me.

 

THORIN

The days grow cold as the winter wind grows stronger. Our breath frosts in front of our faces as every last bit of clothing is layered on at night and not much is taken off during the day. The forest faded away like an unbanked fire two weeks ago, and the plains we’ve crossed since have turned into the unbountiful kind filled with rocks.

The mountains we’ve yet to cross did not loom in front of our faces and provide a clear boundary. Instead, the path we follow simply sloped up a few days ago. The dirt that used to underlay everything has faded away to filling in the cracks between the rocks. A few scraggly plants grow here and there as we take ourselves higher. The air, having grown thinner, has also grown colder as well. It frosts in front of our faces in little white clouds.

I glance back at my company. With the sun shining bright and warm on the day (though the temperature is no where near nice), most of my men have taken their hoods at least partially off. I can see every dwarven forehead, with the exception of Bofur, who wears his hat.

The only other forehead I cannot see is Bilbo’s. His hood is a deep one, and it has been pulled forwards until nothing but deep shadow can be seen from here. Not even his breath shows.

I raise my arm and motion him forwards. He picks up his pace (we’ve sold the horses to avoid their rocky deaths, so he’s just walking today) and trots up to my side.

“How are you feeling, Burglar?” He pauses a moment before replying.

“Fine.”

“Good. Ori will be back soon. You’ll take his place as scout then.” Bilbo nods and falls a bit back until he’s walking behind Dwalin and Balin. I hear their voices rise and fall as the both of them engage Bilbo at once.

Ori, true to the time of day, is back in fifteen minutes. He walks with me a while as I listen to his report. Then I send him to Bilbo.

…

The good weather is not to last, apparently, because after a few days of this the clouds slowly role in. In less than a week, we are once more treading a world of grey.

…

For whatever reason, Bilbo seems to be in a better mood during the grey days than he is during the clear ones. His step is continuously lighter as he walks at the end of the line or scouts ahead. Fili and Kili aren’t on the receiving end of one of his sharp tongue lashes as much as usual (though their taunting and jokes seems to have increased) and he’s less closed off from Ori’s curiosity. It is odd how he’s fine with the scribe himself, but anytime history comes up, Bilbo’s closed tighter than a damn clam.

This slight looseness is how, one evening, we come to know of Bilbo’s brother.

The original question is innocent enough. In response to a particularly sharp joke from Kili, Bilbo has rattled off his regular sarcastic reply, much to Kili and Fili’s not-so-secret delight.

“Bilbo, you must not have had much experience with people like the princes before, huh?” Ori asks, his laughter at Bilbo’s flawlessly witty remark still permeating his words.

Bilbo snorts.

“I have had plenty of experience.”

“Then why do you always return the comment?” Ori says. He’s found that their teasing takes the shortest route only when ignored. Even then, one needs luck for Thorin’s heirs to actually have a short teasing session without a satisfyingly embarrassed reaction to provoke temporary mercy.

Bilbo smirks and leans closer so that his mouth is next to Ori’s ear. The scribes eyebrows lift in surprise to Bilbo’s reason. No sooner has he leaned back than the Durin brothers cut in.

“Wait, we want to know!”

“Nope.” Bilbo’s smirk replaced by a stoic look of go-fuck-yourself as he gazes at the fire and eats the last of his meager vegetables. Tonight, his meat landed in Ori’s bowl (not that he noticed). I see the change in expression just before Ori’s soft ears flick and he turns back to Bilbo.

“Wait, who could possibly give you as much trouble as Fili and Kili?” The awe and slight horror color his voice. Bilbo opens his mouth.

“Wait a minute, we don’t cause trouble!” The mock hurt matches the (please be fake) outrage on the brother’s faces. Bilbo cocks his head at the two.

“Ah, yes, and you two are elves and Gandalf is a troll.” Silence surrounds the reply for just a few moments before a deep, highly amused chuckles makes its way from Dwalin as he imagines Fili, of all people prancing around in silk and eating turnips. He laughs at Kili’s image, too, but the lad already shoots arrows.

Then there’s the last part. Gandalf as a troll is certainly one of the funniest things Bilbo’s said on this journey, so not long after Dwalin starts laughing, I start up too. Ori’s voice joins ours and it’s accompanied by the cousins Ur and the brothers Ri.

It isn’t long before the entire clearing (with the exception of Bilbo, Fili, and Kili) rings with the laughter of one well placed remark. Bilbo looks rather satisfied. We dial it back soon, though. We have no idea who is near.

“Wait, we really aren’t that bad!” I quirk my eyebrow at them just as Bilbo answers.

“That’s what my brother said.” Ori’s deer ears flick up.

“What brother?” I can almost taste the tension that suddenly ripples through Bilbo at his mistake.

“No-” I know he doesn’t want to talk about his family or his history, but too much of him is opaque, so I speak up from my place across from him.

“You can’t very well say you have a brother and then decline to tell us about him, halfling.”  Bilbo’s nose twitches and he shoots me a glare. I smirk. He’s lingering in between denying me (which I’ve learned he won’t do without good cause) and yielding. I lift my chin until he lowers his; a silent very well.

“My brother was… the best thing that ever happened to me.” His gaze leaves mine and tilts back as he wades in his memories. I see Ori subtly writing.

“Why?”

“I’ve never had much in the way of parents… he was the one bright spot in an otherwise d-dull universe.” I can’t help but notice that he seems to have changed his word choice when he tripped over the word “dull”.

“I suppose he was more than that, really. He was like a reminder that if I just held on long enough,” his voice had slipped into the soft tone of a man in a trance, “then I could be better than what I was.”

“Better how?” He gives a tiny huff of a laugh.

“Kinder, for one. Stronger, braver, smarter, for the rest. I don’t think I was able to think beyond that, in those days. Those four things stood out in him like nothing else has. He was my rock and my anchor, my Atlas.”

“Is Atlas his name?”

“No. His name was Adrian.”

“Where is he?” Abruptly, Bilbo’s face clouds as his head snaps down and he looks off to the right of his legs.

“Dead.” I can see the pain in his expression, hidden though it is. So when Ori opens his mouth, I beat him to the punch.

“Then who is Atlas?” Bilbo huffs another laugh, and I can almost see the relief.

“Atlas is a man of legend.” Ori picks it up after meeting my gaze.

“What did he do?”

Bilbo’s head lifts slightly as he begins to speak of lighter things.

“Long ago, when the earth was first brought into existence, the beings that created it made it strong and empty. When the earth came to be inhabited with dwarves and elves, men and hobbits, the world began to fill.

“Finally, it was so full that it was in danger of falling apart. It was so full that it had no strength to maintain the heavens. All who made their home in and on the earth was in danger of dying.

“As the apocalypse drew near, the four original gods and their children drew together to discuss the problem. Some of them, the four original gods among them, wanted to save it. But they would need the help of their children, who were as strong as they were. The numbers for and against the earth both too strong to be repressed. So-”

“Wait, why would any god want us all to die?”

“It’s not that they wanted death, they simply didn’t see the point in saving the lives of those on earth. The reason for the split is because discord had been introduced, after all. Some wanted the inhabitants of their once perfect middle earth to pay for sullying it. They felt that the strength sapped to support those living should be given back. They-”

“Wait,” Fili says for the second time, “Why would any god need to ask? Couldn’t they have just fixed the earth on their own without the help of the others?”

“No. The earth had grown. Also, in fixing the earth, they would have had to fix the heavens and the hells as well. If you interrupt one more time, I’m not going to finish.” They looked at each other for a split second before Fili nods.

“In the end, they put it to a vote and the number came up exactly even. That was when they noticed that Atlas was not there. While the gods had argued (it was a long, long argument with much thunderstorms to attest to it) The apocalypse had begun. Atlas, noticing this, had chosen to hold up the sky as his brethren decided, already knowing what he wanted.

“When his people found him in order to take his vote, the four original gods, on seeing his sacrifice, made two copies of him. To this day, one stands at either end of the world, holding it up and watching for the world to fill beyond its capacity once more, and the third lives his life, relieving the other two in thanks and fellowship.”

In the silence that follows, I realize just how much it must have hurt to lose his brother to the dark gates. I cannot stop wondering how strong one has to be to hold up the weight of the world. Even if it’s just the world of one creature, how broad must Adrian’s shoulders have been to shelter Bilbo from the obviously harsh reality of his childhood.

Conversation filters slowly back into the revered silence and I watch the hobbit across from the fire. My tail begins to sweep faster back and forth and it is only experience that makes it still. Nevertheless, Dwalin quirks his eyebrows at me. Something wrong? I shake my head.

The twisting feeling that has been roiling around in my gut for days suddenly has a face and a name. I realize I’ve begun to care deeply and possibly fall in love with Bilbo. I nearly laugh. I have yet to call him by his name, but I want to be his only. I want to be tied to him forever, and it dawns on me that I’m a complete idiot for feeling this way.

I resolve to be his Atlas, and I won’t leave him alone. Silently, I send out a thanks to this Adrian for keeping Bilbo safe so far. One day, he’ll trust me completely. When we’re in Erebor, he’ll have no ingrained fear of me.

A final promise rings in my mind: one day, he’ll tell me everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For The Fault of Appearances, my plot bunnies have been on crack, but my writing bunnies have been hopping along at a slower pace. This means that there are about fifteen thousand possibilities in my head right now.  
> As most of you read, there's a tag that says Major Character Death. Since I've been spending more time mapping out the possibilities than actually writing them down, I've managed to loose track of which of the company is actually going to die. So the question I want to ask is this: who do you want dead and who do you want alive?  
> With the exception of Bilbo and Thorin (who I need alive for the sequel) please tell me which of the Company you want to die (or not to die. That is the question). If you also have an idea of the details of their death, that's welcome, too.  
> Please don't forget to tell me in the comments. Thanks for reading!


	11. Rocks and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company has a scare, and Bilbo once again stands alone in their cave afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry the chapter is short. I think you're all amazing, by the way.

BILBO

Rain. Wet and sopping, it beats against our backs and against the rocks of the mountain range. It’s cold enough that our breath should be frosting in front of our faces, but the rain beats it from the air. I am enjoying myself because of the storm, but it’s less fun than it should be, firstly because everyone else is in a pissy mood, and secondly because I’m hungry.

I reach up and pull my hood forwards and watch the mini waterfall of the rain dripping off my hood and the ground before me. It’s a good job there’s nothing here but rock now, because while rain is one of my favorite things, mud is only fun if it comes off immediately after I’m done with it. Otherwise, it dries and makes me sluggish and itchy.

A crack of thunder spicks across the sky, closely followed by lighting, and suddenly, there’s shouting and running. Rocks are flying everywhere and I’m confused as to what’s happening. My hand is grabbed by Bifur as I turn to see who’s chasing us, and he wrenches me around again, but I have seen.

There are massive rock giants fighting right over my head, and boulders fly like water droplets as these magnificently pissed off creatures battle each other. All too quickly, one detaches from the mountain side and throws a boulder… directly at me.

A force propels into my back and shifts me away. I turn and look into the face of Thorin Oakenshield, the dangerous presence of instinct in his eyes. I cling to him desperately as his heavy boots stamp after the others. It is not long before we are safe once more.

I make myself stop suffocating Thorin as he sets me down inside this dank cave. Presently, the roaring stops, and along with it, the storm. The sun, having set without my knowledge, provides no light, and so Thorin orders us to rest in this cave.

Bombur has nothing for me to eat with the exclusion of  a single, uncooked carrot. I do not mind. It could definitely be worse. For one thing, I could not have a carrot in the first place. For another, I am used to being hungry (contrary to popular belief). For a third, I like carrots (even old, withered ones) whereas the dwarves, with their equally meager dinner of vegetables, do not. For a fifth, I’m not bleeding or hurting in any way.

I look up at Bombur and see his face: so disappointed that he couldn’t even cook it with no wood and Thorin’s forbidding a fire, anyways. I tilt my head to the side just a little bit and give him a grin; one hundred percent real, nothing faux about it.

“Thank you.”

He just stares (along with everyone else) and his face loses some of that disappointment. He plops down beside me with his own vegetable (a bruised celery stick) and rubs his hand over the top of my head. I let him because he doesn’t try to pierce my curls and turn me into a pliant, purring, overgrown mess of a kitten.

I brought it on myself, anyways. I know most the company finds it endearing. I do it when I want to be left alone but it’s not going to happen because someone (usually Fili and Kili) find it necessary to stick around and be assholes. That person(s) is usually dragged away by whoever’s watching the show.

I don’t think they’ve figured that one out yet.

…

I stand and take a step outside and tip my head back to take in the freshly washed air, cherishing the smell of the mountain before the rock dust settles back over everything. The only one awake right now is Thorin.

I keep taking deep breaths and realizing that I’m really here and we’re really going to Erebor. It holds a sense of wonder I thought I had long lost to reality. My hand plays across the hilt of stinger as I think about this. Unconsciously, I’ve been smiling long enough that my cheeks have begun to hurt. I huff in laughter.

If that kooky wizard was awake, he would take this and run with it. He’s always trying to get me to do more than smirk. I glance down at the lightening below my eyes.

 **Shitholymotherfucker** it’s _blue._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've gotten a few votes so far but I need the rest of you to comment too! My plot bunnies are still one crack.


	12. The Truth Behind the Purr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company takes a trip to goblin town, another of Bilbo's secrets are revealed, and the reason why having his head rubbed is such a weakness.

DWALIN

Goblins. Of all the _bastards_ we could have dealt with tonight, it had to be _fucking_ goblins. Bilbo’s shout woke us in time to tell us that we’re neck deep in a pile of shit, but it did nothing for the fact that the damn _floor_ was a damn _trap_ and now we’ve fallen down a damn _tunnel_. _Mahal’s balls_ this journey couldn't be more unlucky if we had gone with only the thirteen of us.

As it is, we’re all in a circle, tied down like yule turkeys, waiting for the mass slaughter. I’ve managed to maneuver Ori behind me so that he will not take the brunt of the goblin’s wrath, should said goblin’s do anything other than eat us.

An idea I keep shying away from reverberates in my head. Ori is young, and unused to the pain that can come- that undoubtedly will come- from torture. If worse comes to worse, and no rescue comes, would it not be better to kill him? Would it be better to save him the probable weeks we’ll spend down here in the dark, perverted version of dwarven architecture that will never be enjoyed again? Would it be better to save his soul the pressure- and it would be tremendous pressure- the goblins would use to break his soul long before they broke his grip on life?

Is it worse to die by one’s friend in an act of mercy than one’s enemy in an act of savagery? Is it right to kill him when rescue (Gandalf) could very well be on the way (maybe)? Gandalf has said more than once that this is not his quest. Whatever higher power he listens to may hold him back, so we’d all be left waiting and rotting for nothing. What about Fili and Kili? I raised them. What about us all?

In the face of unavoidable torture before death, is it worse to die early by friend or late by enemy? I cannot stop asking myself this. I have a small knife in my boot. I could fix it before it ever started. Shouldn’t Ori decide? If I speak, I will be heard.

There is a small knife in my boot that wasn’t found. If worse comes to worse, I won’t let Ori suffer. I squeeze my eyebrows together as I here the goblin king stir. No one will suffer.

The goblin king- a fat, rounded, moulding dumpling of hatred and feces- speaks, and Thorin responds. Only then, as they trade words and Thorin bargains for what may very well be our last moments unviolated, I realize that Bilbo is no longer here.

I subtly look around and listen intently as I can, but no far off cries of pain are heard, nor sounds of goblin laughter. He is either too far, gone, or dead. I begin to worry and completely miss the interaction between my king and my enemy until Gandalf appears. Then, we are running through the passages, a dead king behind us with a long slice of orcrist in its stomach a goblin horde spurring on our movements.

Then we are out, and Thorin is saying that Bilbo has abandoned us, no small amount of stone impassivity in his voice. On him, that means he’s bitter and hurt. Very hurt. I suddenly realize that Thorin must have intended to court Bilbo once this was all over (or before).

Then Bilbo is stepping from behind the trees, and for a moment, I believe him to be an imposter. The Bilbo I know does not not have the legs of a deer… I rush towards him before he can react and yank the hood back, exposing two horns, each about an inch and a half long and protruding above his ram’s ears, more towards the top of his head than the bottom. A ram. That’s what he is.

“Actually… I’m not… quite a ram…which is to say, it’s… not my Animal form…” Bilbo says, uncomfortable and awkward and, for the first time on this journey, he is totally unprotected from any opinions the company might have (and more specifically, Thorin).

“Then what are you?” I ask, only just now realizing that I had voiced my last thought out loud (hence the answer). Bilbo shuffles his hooves (he has hooves, now) back and forth across the shadowy ground. He presses his lips together and looks down and his tail (which is a buffalo’s (I’ve just now noticed) whips back and forth anxiously.

“Ah… I’m… a-a-a… minotaur…” He says the last part particularly quiet.

“You’re a what?” Thorin asks calmly. He’s the farthest away from Bilbo, so he didn’t hear.

“...A Minotaur…” Bilbo doesn’t close the sentence and instead ducks his head even farther between the shoulders. I glance at Thorin to gauge his reaction and freeze. His face is positively stony, as though he’s just been stabbed through the heart. I understand why.

Minotaurs aren’t just big, they’re huge. Built like fucking _wargs_ , minotaurs are unstoppable beasts of legend and are not often seen up close, though wandering bands often frequent forest and run across open plains.

Bilbo is only as tall as his hobbit self, roughly a third of the average height of an average minotaur. He’s also wiry in a way that makes him seem taller. Bilbo, being no where near fully grown, cannot possibly be old enough for Thorin.

Oh fuck me. Just when things were about to get better for my king, this had to go and happen. Ori turns a curious eye from his king to Bilbo, who are locked in a staring contest, before he reaches out to touch one of his horns at the base. A deep shudder goes through him and he ducks just has Orcan horns sound out.

Well that explains the purring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Don't freak out, I actually have all this mapped out in my head this time.  
> Don't forget to vote for who dies (and who doesn't)!


	13. Orcish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flight from the orcs and the fight with Azog goes differently.

BILBO

There’s so much fire. Gandalf lights the trees and the orcs up as we run and I remember the first inferno I ever saw. We keep running until we reach the end of the forest. Despite the danger- no, because of it- running has never felt so good.

I let loose with everything I’ve got, flinging pinecones into the faces and mouths (they are open, after all) of orcs and wargs alike. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.

My muscles and bones still hurt from shifting, but the painful breathing that accompanies it has subsided to a low ache. I hear the call, and we all ascend into the trees. I loose track of where I am for a moment…

He can’t stop going back to see the fairy. She’s nice now, and sometimes he brings her little presents. She finds all of his bruises, no matter how hard he tries to hide them (he tries very hard and gotten quite good). She rarely speaks, but Bilbo’s world is filled with useless noise and confusing lies, so he doesn’t mind. Really, it’s better.

Today, they’re climbing trees before Branenwyn calls him back. The two of them stand side by side gazing at the clearing. They’ve climbed a few to warm up (for Bilbo to warm up, really. This is a wood fairy, after all.) and now, they’re ready for the real fun.

At a nod of her head, Bilbo takes off and launches himself at a tree, fingers in the rough bark, hooves leaving no gouges as he throws himself as fast as he can up the unbranched trunk. When he has made it to the boughs he weaves back and forth as the massively thick needled branches begin to thin out. He keeps going, and suddenly, he feels he could stay here in this place forever…

I come back to myself in time to avoid an arrow in my god damn brain (idiot) and keep moving over instead of up. When we are all on the last pine it tips over (goddamn it), and for a moment, I can see clearly and without influence.

There riding his warg is the pale orc. When Thorin goes to do battle with him, and I can’t help but wonder who the hell told him that was a good idea. When I jump after him, I find that I must be just as stupid.

Orc blood is just as disgusting as it was the first time, and when I swing around to look Azog in the face, I see the face of many years ago. I shake it off. That face had fur. It doesn’t look like I’m carrying a weapon, but I’ve got many knives (small ones, smarter not harder). As he prepares to attack me, I bare my fangs at him, waiting for his attack.

“Dajal hundar!” Adolescent dog. Great. Now he’s insulting me. I cock my head to the side and grin wickedly, showing off my minotauran fangs.

“Murdautas kag, undur kurv.” A visible reaction goes through his men as he charges me on his warg. I stick the beast in the shoulder as the eagles come. Hurriedly, I drag Thorin out of the way as the warg nearly crushes him.

When even Thorin is gone, and I am on the edge of the cliff, I stare at him, half crouched, another knife in on hand, Sting in another. I give him one last grin.

“Ashdautas vrasubatlat.” Someday, I will kill you. As Azog makes another charge, I jump backwards and sheath my weapons. Then I hold both arms over my head. They are crooked at right angles. I close my eyes as the wind rushes around my body and sigh as i feel my imminent death. The eagles will catch me, I know, but for just a few moments, I can’t help but wonder if I just kept falling, would I not be around to see the inferno?

Eventually, claws close around my fore arms and i open my eyes again as I’m deposited on the back of an eagle’s brethren. The adrenaline leaves me tired as it drains away, and I close my eyes again, breath brushing across soft down. I close my ears against the wind as I’m taken away from the pale orc.

This is so different from the other times I’ve seen him.

…

Eventually, the eagle lands, and on shaky legs I make my way over to my people, and watch as Gandalf attends to him. It’s hard for me to stand, but it’s not time to sit yet. Eventually, Thorin sits up and looks for me. I step forwards and wait for him to say what I think he’s going to say.

“Who taught you black speech?” There’s a thread of something in his voice that sounds more than a little ragged.

“N-n-n-no one.”

“But you know it.”

“Yes.”

“Then-”

“There will be time for this later. For now, it’s time to get off the Carrock. There’s a river that runs near the bottom of it.” I can feel Gandalf standing protectively at my side, and I’m immensely grateful for his presence, because it stops the confused, semi-hostile, disbelieving stares directed my way.

Thorin nods. “Very well. It will keep. But mark my words, you will explain this.” Thorin says, and we begin to descend the Carrock, me staying as far back as I can from everyone else, knowing that they no longer want me who knows the language of poison and death, blood and sickness.

Going down is a bitch, unfortunately, and more than once, I stumble, but Gandalf is there, stopping anything from happening, including me faceplanting. He keeps trying to bring me abreast with Bifur, at the end of the line, but I’m just waiting for the hammer to drop.

The walk is long and painful, and I’m dead tired at the start and just dead at the end. Once we reach the bottom, Thorin orders us to camp here. While the fire is being started and Fili and Kili disappear to hunt what may be hunted, I slip to the edge, beyond the light of the fire but in the light of the full moon. I sit down on a relatively flat rock and pull a hoof onto my thigh.

I slip out a thin, strong piece of metal from my pocket and work out the large stone that lodged inside a quarter of the way down. I feel the immediate relief when it pops out and set about relieving myself of all the little stones I picked up as well.

When I’m done, I realize nearly everyone is watching me, but their faces are shadowed, so I can’t see what they think. I get up and walk off. We’ll need more firewood. When I get back, the company has started to eat. It’s silent when I sit down, and it’s awful, knowing that the last meal I take with them is in silence and hostility.

Bombur tries to hand me a leg but I shake my head. I have not eaten meat in years, though I hid it well.

“Burglar, just eat it.” My eyes flick up and stare at a spot above Thorin’s left shoulder. I take a few bites of meat from the hunk I was given. But I can’t eat any more. I lower it. No one is going to want it. I’ve already touched it. It is only once the Company has finished eating that I realize that this is what Thorin meant when he said he’d wait. He never said he’d wait for long. The camp has fallen silent without the sounds of chewing and swallowing. The hammer drops.

“Explain.” I take a few deep breaths and open my mouth.

Today is the day I tell them everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I'm not pulling this out of my ass! All will be explained in the next chapter.   
> Don't forget to vote!


	14. Origin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's real origins are revealed, right before what he believes will be his exile.

BILBO

_“When I was one, my father died. I was adopted by a minotaur named Branenwyn Stone. He was, at first glance, a perfect match. To me, he was a giant and an angel because his fur is completely white._

_“I don’t really remember when I realized the full extent of the world I was living in, but I do remember how strange Adrian used to be to me. He rarely spoke and when he did, it was usually short, one word sentences in a scratchy voice. It made no sense._

_“Sometime after I turned four, I recognized the look I had been seeing all along as fear. I also noticed the way he held himself: stiffly, as though he was pained. Not long after, I started to sneak around to try and figure out what was scaring the boy I had glued myself to. Imagine my surprise when I realized it was Branenwyn himself. They were talking about Smaug._

_“I stayed until the end of the conversation. It wasn’t smart, because when Branenwyn caught me, I was suddenly in the exact same spot Adrian was in. It hurt, but in a way, I was okay. Adrian was still there. At the time, he was twenty._

_“The conversation I had heard didn’t make sense, so after a while, I forgot about it. A few years after, when I was seven, nearing my eighth birthday, I realized what that conversation had meant._

_“A cage I had never seen before was sitting in a corner, suspended by a heavy iron chain. It was in there that I awoke in. In the center to a room I had only found and broken into via late night adventures was a stone table I had been too afraid of to touch. I had every right to be._

_“Adrian was strapped to its center and he had been struggling for quite some time. His sides were lathered in foaming sweat, and he had hurt his head from thrashing his head from side to side. There was blood on the table beneath the wounds and on his fur._

_“Branenwyn was standing on the side opposite of me, where he could see the both of us. He had his hands on Adrian’s stomach, and his hands glowed darkly. I could tell it pained Adrian greatly. His eyes had rolled so far back that I couldn’t see the color anymore._

_“He stopped after maybe half an hour (I don’t know for sure) and glanced up. When he saw me awake and watching, he began talking. He pointed me out to Adrian, who, of course, looked. When he saw me, he started screaming at me in Common and in Rikaryn (my native language) to look away.  I couldn’t._

_“When Branenwyn’s hands went back to work, he started to talk to me. For the entire time, he described what he was doing, and he said that the same thing would happen to me if I ever snuck around again. In that moment, I never hated anything more in my life._

_“I started to snarl and fight against my own cage, but it was very useless. In the end, after hours of nonstop pain, everything about Adrian that made him… him had been chased away, exposing the inner piece of power Branenwyn was truly looking for._

_“He twisted the power in Adrian until it was in the shape of a dragon. Then he sent the dragon to replace the one already in Erebor._

_I took the threat he made as a personal challenge. I learned Black Speech by hearing orcs speak and reading his journals when he wasn’t watching.”_

They are silent as they realize that the Smaug that killed their people is long gone.

“How did you escape?” Thorin asks, still calm in the face of all that I know, all the lies I told, by omission or otherwise.

“When I was fourteen, Branenwyn made good on his threat. By that time, I was all but consumed in hate, so it wasn’t as hard for him as it should have been. His magic had nothing to stick to, since hate is is a slippery thing.

“The transformation remained for a total of six days. The original Smaug- a minotaur named Nile- brought me down in the third day. Neither hide nor hair was seen of either of us until I was… able to be me again.”

“Where are they now?” Again, Thorin is calm.

“Adrian is still in the mountain. Branenwyn is most likely where he can figure out how to keep both the mountain and the gold. Nile is… well, I don’t know where he is. I probably won’t for a long time.

“Why?”

“Nile never stays in on spot.”

“Bilbo, if Smaug is your brother, how do you intend to deal with him?”

“...Branenwyn used untrained minotaurs with the potential and power to be shamans to fuel the creation of his dragons. It’s highly painful, but he’s so big right now that I believe I can loosen the magic around his body and allow him to change back to himself.”

Before, I could have talked for ages about the things that went on between the age of one and thirty two, but now the words have dried up in my throat. This is judgement day.

Slowly, Thorin gets to his feet and steps around the fire, past Balin, Fili, Kili, Gloin, Oin, and Bombur. When he’s standing in front of me, I stand too and, for the first time, meet his gaze. I expect rejection and hatred, as anyone else would do.

Instead, he wraps his arms around my body in a great big hug. It feels as if this world is suddenly smaller, safer warmer. I hug him back, and do it in gratitude.

It- damn me- feels as though I have come _home_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's the explanation, complete with Bilbo's hug (which I'm sure a lot of you missed) and all the feels in the world. Don't forget to vote. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, check the notes at the end of chapter ten: His Atlas. Then come back and vote:)


	15. Shy but Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and co. discover what they've been missing, Bilbo acts his age, and they meet Beorn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your opinions on this work and who should die are very appreciated. I'd love to get more ofthem

THORIN  
Shy. That is a word I did not think I would ever use to describe my sassy, apparently underaged burglar. He’s not just shy, he’s painfully, cripplingly so. It’s not even all of him that’s shy. It’s just a few key bits.

  
Like his laugh. Oh, I’ve seen him smile before. I’ve even seen him snort or give a non sustained burst. It’s short though, no more than a single “ha”. His teeth gleam in the low fire light as he listens to Fili and Kili and, for the first time since I first laid eyes on him, his face is split into more than a smirk or a small, satisfied, lipless smile.

  
His grin makes him seem his age (small wonder he hid it) and his laugh even younger, as it bubbles up and just doesn’t stop. The first time he did this, not long after I let him go, Fili and Kili both stopped and stared at him. This entire, ill-advised trip they have never gained more than a cursory glance, an eyeroll, or an eyebrow arch for their antics and their trouble.  
Then they just went wild with it. They have not stopped telling jokes (a few of them at Bilbo’s expense, to which he responded in turn and in equal measure) since they got over their rather amusing reaction.

  
It’s very odd. I understand how carrying the amount of secrets Bilbo carried just a short while ago influenced the amount of freedom he allowed himself. There’s been many a time when I have fallen into that same reserved, rigid facade to deal with annoying people who I really should not kill. (At least, not out in the open…)

  
It seems as though Bilbo has literally shed his skin in the fifteen minutes it took for him to believe that the hug I gave him was genuine and definitely supported by the rest of the Company, as well. I can still see when he’ll hitch on a smile, or abruptly stop laughing. It makes me wonder if he’s on something, though. If he wasn’t too young to be here, I wouldn’t doubt Bilbo’s sobriety or his coherency (or even his sanity, which I’ve done to plenty of older dwarves).

  
I stand and make my way over to Gandalf, slowly. I don’t want to startle Bilbo (who isn’t quite over the part where we don’t hate him or want him gone). When I finally find myself sitting next to him, the Wizard takes his pipe out, and loses a curl of smoke from his mouth.  
“Yes, Thorin?”

  
“So, Bilbo…”

  
“I figured you’d come up with a question.”

  
“He’s not high, is he?” Gandalf’s eyebrows twitch and he gets this look on his face.

  
“No, Thorin. Bilbo is not high, he’s just happy.”

  
“He seems a completely different person.” I say musingly, fine with just sitting, now that Bilbo’s not on something.

  
“Minotaurs are peculiar creatures, you know.”

  
“Yes… peculiar how?” Gandalf takes a long, leisurely drag on his pipe.

  
“As peculiar as minotaurs are, mintra are even more so.”

  
“Ok.” I say, desperately hoping he doesn’t decide to be a cryptic bastard and make me put on my “reserved, not-a-killer” face.

  
“For one thing, they can be very shy, which you’ve already noticed.” I just wait, watching him lean in closer to Kili as he tells yet another joke.

“The other thing is that around family, they get ridiculously happy, hyper, boundless, and very, very affectionate.”

  
“But we’re not his-” Then I stop, because Gandalf keeps going.

  
“He told you everything and you passed no judgement, opened no wounds (old or new), and did not strike him down when you had the chance. You’re now his family in his mind.” I crinkle my brows. Ori told Bilbo about dwarven families ages ago. There’s no way he doesn’t know that-

  
“He knows dwarves don’t take in honorary family members outside of our own race.”

  
“Hmm.” Gandalf takes a couple drags on his pipe before saying with his face straighter than a line, “And are you going to tell him that? Or are you just going to tell everyone to stuff it since this “outsider” is the linchpin in whether or not you actually regain your mountain."

  
I watch Bilbo; take in the mud on his body and the fact that that he lost his coat somewhere in the goblin tunnels (I think). I can see the slightly stiff movement of his limbs and the hitch in his face when he shifts the wrong leg. He needs to be seen to. I don’t take my eyes of Bilbo as I signal Oin.

  
“The latter.”

  
“Good. That’d break his heart.”

  
…

  
Apparently, Bilbo’s fucking crazy. I’m dead serious. He won’t stop running around. Last night, after Oin checked him out, he slipped off to bathe (moon was full) and when he came back, Fili and Kili, having followed him and finished when he did, promptly made a dog pile. And he didn’t protest.

  
He keeps spooking Oin and Balin. Intentionally. Fili and Kili started chasing him, and he tried to hide behind me. So then I grabbed him up and told him he could either walk with me or do the shit trench for the next seven camps we make. He calmed down, but he won’t stop twitching.

  
His fingers are already drumming against his thighs, and he keeps looking off and then at me and back at the Company. He’s about to drive me nuts, and I only touched him once. I’d snap at him again, but it’s not exactly anywhere near right to snap at a child who has apparently been very, very lonely for much of his life. I still think he may be high.

  
“Bilbo…” I say, quietly. Ori’s time as a scout is very nearly done.

  
“Yes?” He instantly stills.

  
“Do you want to scout?” He nods his head vigorously, and watches for when Ori crests the horizon. He does in a few minutes, and Bilbo is off like a shot, running first in a diagonal line, then climbing a tree. He descends the tree to run away from us, and I can all but see the energy rolling off him. Apparently he’s excited by this “friend” of Gandalf’s.

  
…

  
Bear. A big-ass, killer bear is Gandalf’s goddamn friend. And he wonders why I argue with him so much. I might be stubborn and opaque, but at least I don’t do that shit like it’s morning tea.

  
I sigh. My company is safe within the walls of this… bear’s home. At least Bilbo is happy. He keeps bouncing on his feet and looking at the door. His ears have been twitching back and forth non stop for the past hour as everyone sits and talks around him and I can’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t like to make friends with this bear (it wouldn’t surprise me, with his sudden liking of hugs and all things cuddly).

  
I wonder how he’s going to fair with nowhere to go until we meet this Beorn fellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I took so long but now I've figured out why I can't copy and paste on a tablet (figured it out, by the way) so here's the chapter I've been making.


	16. Rest Before Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The company stops at Beorn's house and move on to Mirkwood. Bilbo has another flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is shorter than usual, but I don't want to fit to much into any one chapter. Let me know what you think. :)

THORIN

As it turns out, Beorn doesn’t like me anymore than I like him (something in common. Yay.) but he certainly likes Bilbo, given the fact that he won’t stop picking him up. The fact that he actually picks him up quite a lot is not because he lets Bilbo down as well, but because Bilbo’s constantly wiggling out of his grasp.

In any case, it’s disconcerting to see a child (even if he is mature for someone thrice his age) in the grasp of such a large, dangerous shapeshifter. But Beorn is gentle with him to the point of impossibility, so I let him go where he likes. Bilbo does, however, sleep with the rest of my company.

Unfortunately, a lot of what Bilbo likes is running for ages on end. He takes himself out over the meadows and plays with the massive bees and I can sometimes hear his shrieks of laughter (they are laughter. If they weren’t, he’d be cursing.) from the house.

Right now, Fili and Kili are with him, but he tends to disappear at will and come back ages later. Which is really whenever he gets hungry. Or Beorn will be with him. I see my nephews and burglar practicing sword work. Bilbo’s sword (dagger) is as much an extension of his arm as Kili’s bow. To bad he has the tendency to throw it. I cock my head.

Originally, it looked as though my nephews were teaching Bilbo. It is they who are going through new steps, though. As for Bilbo, he looks like he’s dancing.

“I never thought I’d see the day when a child taught my nephews a lesson in swordsmanship.” I say to Dwalin, who stands with me, watching them.

“He is no ordinary child, though.” True enough. I mistook him for a fully grown hobbit for months.

“Who do you think his family is?” I shrug.

“It doesn’t matter. His father’s dead, and I have a feeling that his mother is to. If they were alive, he wouldn’t have so many scars.”

“Scars?”

“It’s why he wears gloves.” Bilbo twists out of the way of Fili’s jab and lets out a giggle of excitement.

“I don’t believe the wizard could have been more right when he said Bilbo had much to offer.”

“Do you think he knew Bilbo’s age?” I’m sorely regretting Bilbo’s part in all this.

“Probably not. I can’t see even someone as kooky as Gandalf sending a child on an adventure such as this one.”

“Still…” We fall into silence. It is nice watching the three of them. I glance at my friend. Dwalin’s eyes have wandered. He’s come to look towards the mountain.

“Thinking of Erebor?” He shakes his head.

“Mirkwood’s going to be a bitch to get through.”

“I know.”

“Do you think it would be better if we asked Gandalf to keep Bilbo with him until we get through the forest?”

“No. Gandalf is too distracted. I need Bilbo focused.”

“Focused on what, exactly? Stealing from a dragon- his own brother?”

“That will come later. The forest is the challenge of the day.”

BILBO

It's unformed tendrils reach around me- around us all- caving us in like a collapsed building. I can feel it creeping down my back and choking my lungs like a phantom fighter.

This is what happens when there is magic with nothing to control it and no will to form it. It spoils like wine. It grow stronger and spreads throughout the body. It's heady and poisonous, addictive and dangerously calming. This is the reality I spent years learning how to withstand; different time, different place, same poison, same burns.

This is the Mirkwood, and its sickness makes me want to burn it to the ground and dance among the flames.

I try not to breathe too deeply, but among the dying branches, this is useless. I remember the last time I felt something so callously evil.

...

_Bilbo wanders among the trees, haphazardly pushing himself through the dying fall leaves. Tears mat his fur, creating a sticky concoction when it joins with the blood already there. His mouth is open, baying and keening for something he can't name, can't focus on._

_When he breaches the clearing so many were afraid to even think about, let alone say the name of, Bilbo stops to look around. The fairy is no longer here. Bilbo's fairy is gone, and like the rest of this haunted forest, black magic has begun to permeate the very atmosphere of The Hollow._

__

...

I blink. The sickness must be wearing at my control faster than I thought it would. We've been who knows how long in this forest, and it's hard to lift my head.

I trudge on, though. Somewhere out there is the end. We need only reach it.


	17. The Things Kings Will Do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil pieces together the things the dwarves refused to tell him, guilt trips Bilbo, fights a silent battle, and empathizes with Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to tell me who you want alive and dead. (Check the chapter ten notes if you don't get it)

BILBO

The spiders reak of this havoc as they stab at me and mine, hissing and snarling. It is not long before I find myself all alone.

THRANDUIL

Thirteen dwarves and a child stand before me. I look at them speculatively, secretly gauging how wary they are. They’re very hostile, and I know I won’t get anything out of them. I move my gaze to the child. He’s not just any child, either. He’s a minotauran child. Those are rarely seen and even fewer are heard.

“Take them to the dungeons. Leave the minotaur.” This causes a lot of hollering and Kudzul insults. When they’ve been escorted away, I focus my gaze back on the little one. He doesn’t meet my gaze, and instead trades his on the floor. It’s not submission, though. Never submission.

“So, then, child. What are you doing in Mirkwood?” He just stands there, eyes down, back straight. He’s young enough to still need his mother, but behaves in a way that says otherwise. It could take weeks to crack him. Months, maybe. I need to find a way past that resolve. Then it hits me.

“What about a trade?” He shrugs his shoulders. Go on.

“I’ll ask you a question, and if you answer it, you’ll get one of equal measure.” The child shrugs again. It’s as much of a yes as I’m going to get.

“What’s your name?”

“Bilbo Baggins.” I wait.

“Why do you hate dwarves?” I hadn’t been expecting that one.

“It’s not that I hate dwarves, I simply dislike trespassers.” Bilbo nods.

“Why are you travelling through Mirkwood?”

“To get to the other side.” Well then.

“Why are you trying to get to the other side?”

“It’s not your turn.”

“Your answer was not the one I’m looking for.”

“If you know what to look for why do you need an answer?”

“I need information, and that, Master Baggins, provided me with woefully little.” Bilbo looks up and blinks.

“At least you know we aren’t here to call dark spirits and the like.”

“I already knew that.”

“Well that’s not my fault.” He sounds oddly petulant. I step down from my throne and towards Bilbo, who stiffens all over. I need to take control, but he’s woefully slippery. Very well.

“Thank you for telling me. Based on our little game so far, you’ve told me that your name is Bilbo, you intend to pass through the forest, and you’re smart. Now let me tell you what that tells me."

I lean closer and keep talking. “I know you’re headed to Erebor, and I know what time of the century it is. I know who it is I have in my dungeons. What I want to know is this: how do you intend to kill a dragon?” I smile a lipless smile and raise my eyebrows.

“Originally, I guessed that whatever wizard that was with you before you entered the forest would have something to do with it, but then I realized that wizards aren’t that helpful. So now, with dwarves being incapable of defeating the dragon, there’s only one loose end to tie up: you.” I take his chin in my hand, and he’s forced to raise his eyes to mine, clearly exposing his inner power.

It is like getting lost. The first thing that hits me is the pain. It’s the pain of a thousand griefs, a thousand wounds, a thousand losses. In equal measure is the simple pleasure that children feel. Endless peals of laughter and running, tickle fights and warm things on cold nights. Different pairs of hands, one of them brings fear, and the rest bring contentment and love, tinged with grief and loneliness. What chokes me is the fervor and fire that rages out of control for just a small moment in time, but it is enough to change everything, as though this childs life is both less and more. More wariness, less laughter. More learning, less darkness.

I continue, as only a moment has passed.

“So basically, _shaman_ , you’re the only creature I actually need to keep here. But the rest of yours will remain here, rotting away. The guilt of their misfortune, their depression, and ultimately their failure, will rest on your shoulders. Those same shoulders will live no fewer than five hundred years. I am patient, child. I can wait. You, however, are running out of time.” I rise and hide all that I’ve seen, but I know he recognizes it anyways. He bares his fangs and speaks in a language like dark honey.

*“Wees versigtig wat jy wil.” Be careful what you wish for.

…

Tonight, I cannot relax, cannot calm myself enough to fight back the poison of the Mirkwood for even a little while. I rise. He must have told the dwarves something about his plans. I make my way down to the dungeons silently, listening for anything that isn’t khudzul. I am unsuccessful.

Dawn breaks, and I return to my room. It will be another hour before anyone calls for me, and I want to at least try and use that time for my people. Apparently, it’s Bilbo I cannot relax about.

No child’s core should be that complex, that deep, that dangerous to truly wade into ( I just touched the surface). For a moment, it was as though I was standing at the edge of an entire star system, just watching them birth, grow, and die, every star both it’s own ball of light and part of a whole. Only wizards (or shamans, for minotaurs) have this kind of core.

I sigh. It won’t do to to keep worrying this like a wound. It will only get infected. Instead, I push Bilbo and the dwarves away and focus on my forest and my people.

As the sun reaches the tops of the trees, I start with the leaves of the trees that are closest to the castle. I follow along the tiny veins to their slender branches, touching each speck of light and life left in my forest.

I reach the trunks and follow them to the ground, resting a moment to allow the momentum to build before I push it out to swiftly cover the entire forest floor in every direction. I’m on a downhill slope and only getting faster as I swarm up the rest of my trees and underbrush, cover the dead and the living, the poisoned and the pure alike.

Somewhere out there, the sore of Dol Guldur burns in my mind and it tries to eat me alive. Smaller, and more like pinches than punches, are the spiders that have been cleared out by my men dozens of times. Their among them are their giant webs, alive in its own way, and their victims. Many are the gentle creatures that no longer reside here. Newer but no less painful are the corpses of their natural predators. I let them go after wishing them peace.

As carefully as I can, I grip the black magic that spreads rot and decay among me and mine. Then I push. I push as evenly as possible as all over the forest, a days worth of poison is pushed back for the while I can hold it.

I don’t dare take hold of Dol Guldur, instead creating a barrier around it. It is life that has had to fight. It is a little bit of what I sensed in Bilbo. It is a little bit of the good burn of drive I sensed in the dwarves. It is a little bit of my own struggles. Dol Guldur hates it, and I can feel it in my bones as it surges against my wall of obstinance. I can feel it begin to try and pierce the armored power I’ve penned it behind.

It will break down the wall eventually, and in the near future. For now though, it is held back and there is no mother source to aid my forest’s death for the time being. I withdraw. For now, the poison’s growth will not continue. Neither will the forests’.

As the last bit of mental connection breaks, I stumble up from the chaise lounge in my bedroom and just barely make it to the bathroom before I hurl all over bathtub. The magic always makes me sick, but it is the price I pay for my people’s lives.

For just a moment, I empathize with Thorin Oakenshield. Then I shut that train of thought down. We are all in the same damn boat . If he wakes that damn dragon up, the fucker’s going to drown us all. I will never put dwarves before my people.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sitting in a chair drinking coffee and realized that most antagonist characters (like Thranduil) only get one (sometimes two) traits. So, in honor of the fact that Thranduil is not JUST a complete dickhead, I thought I'd show something that has him truly earning the right and responsibility to rule.  
> I also thought I'd use this chapter to do a little character building of both Bilbo and Thranduil, since they both meet up again later (you knew that). So tell me what you think, okay?  
> * The language Bilbo speaks is Afrikaan.


	18. The Proper Guards Could Have Ruined This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo orchestrates dwarven escape, but in a different manner.

BILBO

Nothing has changed in the weeks that have passed. Which is to say that Thranduil does nothing in the way of interrogation, torture, poison, or anything at all. This leaves my family absolutely, utterly bored. I, however, tend to plot. Alot.

What light exists here does not reach the back of the cell, where I sit. They cannot see me. It sets my guards on edge and keeps them confused over whether or not I'm actually in here. Good. It serves them right.

What Thranduil has said keeps eating at me. The only thing between success and failure is me. All I have to do is tell him what he wants to hear. If I do that, we've even more screwed than before, so we're all stuck here.

In the meantime, I am plotting an escape plan. A plan that Thranduil's little display of power set into motion. The thing about looking at someone’s core is it can go both ways. So while Thranduil was looking at the inside of me, I was looking at the inside of him.

The man’s connected. He feels everything. Every speck of dirt, fallen pine needle, every leaf on every tree, every speck of black magic, and (best of all), every single passageway in this place, including the exits. Because he’s connected, and I looked into him, what he knows, I know. I smile.

He’s connected to the dwarves, too.

Nile once taught me a trick. I let my eyes close and maneuver myself into a position I could sleep in. I breath in long and deep, over and over until I'm very nearly there.

Then I remember the look on his face, the utter sense of synchronicity and then I'm back there again, forgetting how to breath as I felt the whole of the Mirkwood with its elves and poison flowing through me and into my marrow.

I can feel the comforting weight of dwarves in various states of discontent. I back away from them. Thranduil will be watching them entirely too closely. Instead I find the doors and the windows, the place where air flows and where it is still.

In one particularly lightly guarded, large room the river is oh so close to the room, and I know that must be where escape offers itself.

I truly let my mind drift off. This may be the last good sleep I have in a while.

…

When it is evening, the I begin. When the guards are an hour from changing, I begin to cough, starting up from the bench I've been "sleeping" on.

Whoever he is steps closer to the bars, but not close enough, so I just keep coughing, building up the wet, sickly sound akin to any lung illness.

"Oi, little one, are you unwell?" I don't respond, allowing the noise and the force to take me to the ground. I make to stand and fail. The coughing has started in earnest now. I couldn't stop it if I wanted to.

The guard knows better than to step inside. He knows not to talk to me, but there are ways past that. I am, after all, a child. What child does not want comfort?

I push myself closer to the bars and press my skull up against it. Hesitantly, long, elvhen fingers pet the top of my head, trying to sooth me. I fight the purr in my throat and keep going, wringing out every last drop of fluid in my airways.

His hand leaves for but a moment until he's returning with a lantern. I move. My head turns upwards and I look him in the eyes, watching as he immediately softens, looses himself.

Elves, if given half a chance, will see the depths of everything. If they aren't careful, they'll get lost in whatever it is they're looking at. It's rather careless for Thranduil to choose  just any guard. This one doesn't notice when I set my hand near him. He doesn't snap out of it until it is too late.

I gaze at my unconscious guard for all of half a moment. Then I snag the keys from his belt. Now the real fun begins.

...

Again with the guards. It's not that hard. Just pick ones that can squash the need to help small children.

“Bilbo? How did you do that?” Kili asks from where he grips the bars of his cell. He looks intrigued, not frightened, so I decide to just put it off and not actually get rid of his question.

“Let’s make a deal. We get out, and I’ll tell you.” I glance at the two rings of keys in my hand. Identicle. I jam the one that looks like it fits Kili’s lock home and, for whatever reason, I’m actually right.

Kili slips from his cell and manages to hug me. “Deal. Hey, Fili and Balin are on this hallway, Dwalin and the brothers Ri are in the hallway opposite, and everyone else is on the other side of the back wall.” I nod.

“Good. You finish this hallway, I’ll get to the other hallway. And Kili?” My friend and brother in arms looks at me. I smile.

“Be quiet. The guards change in another forty five minutes.” Then I’m off, effectively striking the question from Kili’s lips. I don’t bother to listen in for the sounds of dwarves because, thanks to Thranduil’s little method of keeping tabs on everything, I already know where they are. Just as I know how many guards are in the hallway.

I slip a small box from the inside of my coat. It looks like a gedagtenis geval, a remembrance case. Generations ago, when a minotaur died, his/her body was cremated and the ashes losed to the wind. A small portion of that was often kept in a little bag or box with a lock on it. This worked fine, but the bastards of the day realized that the ashes could be used to call back the spirit of the dead minotaur (ghouls). In order to protect our dead, all the ashes are released. The case was then filled with little things that meant something to the dead.

This case honors no dead. It’s completely black both inside and out. It’s innards are velvet lined with two spherical indentations. Two glasslike, shiny black balls sit in each. On each a yellow, slitted eye is painted, as though a piece of one’s face was cut away from the rest.

When the eyes are faced down, they are harmless. When they are faced up, they tend to disrupt one’s perception. One eye is faced up now, which is why there aren’t all kinds of guards on me. The fact is, Thranduil simply doesn’t know me and mine have gone. If I turn the other eye, the guards won’t be able to see me or even register anything is amiss. It’s not invisibility (not necessarily). It’s like being told there’s a spider on your shoulder when there really isn’t. Because you believe it, it’s really there. The moment you stop believing, the illusion’s over.

I turn the other eye and replace the case. Then I step into view.

FILI

Master Baggins has far too many surprises. I’ve been thinking this since the goblin caves, but the fact that these elven guards are dropping without a fight to someone who isn’t there is just too much. The door opens of its own accord, but I refuse to move towards it. After all, who ever heard of an invisible hobbit?

“Fili, I’m directly in front of you. Believe I’m here, and the illusion will break.” I blink. I know he’s there. His voice just came from there. It’s just some strange… trick.

Bilbo was right, his blond curls wave around his horns, his face rather serious in the torchlight.

“How did you do that?” I take a step towards him and he gives me a grin.

“That’s my secret.” Then he’s spinning away and headed back towards… well damn, everyone but my uncle is here. As a group, we make our way through the halls, seemingly aimless. I’ve spent months watching Bilbo (in a totally non stalker way) and I know that his stride is just a bit too purposeful, eyes just a bit too watchful, for Bilbo to have no idea where my uncle is. I let it drop, though. There will be time enough later.

Finally, Bilbo stops and straightens from his roving and leads us down a dark, sublevel tunnel. The guards mouth is barely open before he’s suddenly unconscious. Tail swishing, Bilbo swiftly extracts the guard’s single key and unlocks the cell of Thorin Oakenshield.

Quiet words are said, and Bilbo’s un-stiffened posture is enough to let me know that my uncle is all right. There isn’t time for anything more, because Bilbo’s now darting up the tunnel and pausing at the top, the rest of us trying to be silent. No one is as silent as Bilbo.

…

A wine cellar. Bilbo’s great escape plan is a wine cellar. The fucking alarm bells are going off, and every elf in the damn compound is looking for us, and Bilbo wants us to sit in empty barrels. I shake my head and climb in one. It’s not like I’ve got a better idea.

When the floor drops out from underneath me, I thank Mahal for the fact that dwarves are hardy creatures, because I would have surely thrown up otherwise.

As it is, I'm already half drowned and nearly shot by orcs by the time we hit the rapids. Why did we have to be the ones with the trouble? Why couldn't THEY have run into the giant spiders and treeshagger blades? Why is it that the people who don't go shooting up every fucking thing the ones who have to put up with this shit?

It is a miracle any of us are even alive, so I don't feel much shame in having to drag myself ashore with Kili (especially since everyone's in the same shape). I look around and see thirteen. Good. Thirteen is good.

It isn't until we are aboard Bard's barge that I realize how much worse for wear Bilbo is than the rest of us.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! All my favorite people!


	19. In Which All Hearts Are Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo sings, and talks a bit about his culture

THORIN

To say toilets are now my least favorite thing is an understatement. I mean, really, we just had to take the nastiest way into Laketown, didn't we? Well, we're here now, and clean to boot, so that's something, at least.

My men are entirely whole, except for Bilbo, who is in fact sick. A good night' sleep should do the trick, though. He's got a hot mug of something, and that seems as good as anything.

I turn back to Bard, back to negotiations.

...

 

BILBO

I'm trying not to cough too hard, or even cough at all, because we're close now. We are close to my brother, close to their home, close to it all. Now is not the time for weakness. Now is the time for anything but.

...

When Bard exposes us, I want to hang him by his pinky toes and watch him squirm. Of course he would back out. I have to remind myself not to be so angry. Very few stay for a while after the fun ends.

As it is, the "master" is a greedy clod and a bitch if a coward. He is easily manipulated and even easier to win. He sets me on edge and stops me from sleeping deeply enough to recover. Which how Oin cottoned on when we were first introduced to our current lodgings. It’s been a few days.

We're sitting around a table, eating. Well, they're eating, but most of it is meat, so I've already eaten what vegetables are to be had. Now I'm drinking tea. It's mint, and it feels good to my sore throat.

"Bilbo?" I look up. They were talking, but now they aren't. I blink.

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you knew how to sing." Kili says.

"...Yes."

"Would you mind...?" I shake my head.

"Singing is sacred to my people."

"Sacred how?" Ori asks, instantly hooked. I sit back and lock at the ceiling. It's been a long time since I've sung or even talked of it.

"We sing of death and its many heralds. We sing in respect. Curses and blessings alike have their due. Our holy days have their own traditional songs as do one's coming of age as well as their right of passage, though those are often marked with original songs.

"A king may sing in place of a speech, just as an apprentice will sing as a final step into his life as a master at his trade. A call to war or to peace may be done through song, just as one may court with it, as well. The disgraced or shamed may not sing, and we never speak of the dead outside of song. It is, in short, reserved for the important things," I wait, and for a few moments, nothing but the sound of Ori's pen is heard. It is Dwalin who breaks the quiet.

"Are you disgraced, Bilbo?" He asks, a thread of kindness in his voice. I fix my gaze to his left shoulder.

"I am all but."

"One would think your people would seek to protect you." I shake my head.

"I'm sure they would, if they knew of my existence. You know my story. After my fall, Nile fixed it so that I'm not just missing, I am dead."

"It seems a rather lonely existence." I shake my head.

"It was a time I spent preparing. Fourteen years I have waited for this day. Fourteen years of training myself to do what it is I'm here to do. My "death" was a needed thing. Until you all and yours are back where you belong, it is still necessary."

"Funny, that." Thorin remarks, and he surprises me so much I nearly look him in the eyes. I settle for the space next to his head.

"What do you mean?"

"I would say your stake in this is as big as mine is." I nod. Thorin smiles, and his next words take me by surprise.

"Would you sing for battle and for unity?" I blink.

"Yes..."

"Please do, then." I think back to a song Nile once sang to me, when I was still bedridden and riding out the effects of Branenwyn's magic. At the time, I was terrified of being left alone. I wouldn't have made it if that had been the case. I stand and set my tea down. I pick out the grain of the wooden table as I draw a deep breath.

"This is the end

Close your eyes and count to ten

Feel the earth move and then

Hear my heart burst again

For this is the end

I've drowned and dreamt this moment

So overdue I owe them

Swept away, I'm stolen

**  
  
**

Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all together

Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all together

At Skyfall

At Skyfall

**  
  
**

Skyfall is where we start

A thousand miles and poles apart

Where worlds collide and days are dark

You may have my number

You can take my name

But you'll never have my heart

**  
  
**

Let the sky fall

when it crumbles

We will stand tall

And face it all together

Let the sky fall

We will stand tall

Face it all together

At sky fall

At sky fall.

**  
  
**

Where you go I go

What you see I see

I know I'd never be me

Without the security

Of your loving arms

Keeping me from harm

Put your hand in my hand

And we'll stand"

I finish as a nervous wreck with a good mask. They just watch me. I'm sure I could figure out what they're thinking, if I could bring myself to actually look any of them in the eye.

"Bilbo?" Ori asks, face turned towards me, hand hovering over a page in his notebook. I look at his hand.

"Yes?"

"Is Skyfall a place?" I sit down.

"Skyfall is..." I've never given deep thought to Skyfall. I never thought I'd have the right to even sing of it.

"... It refers to a nameless place, one past the veil of death. It is... for the driven ones. Those who die in the name of a cause or put their people above themselves find it without obstruction. Supposedly, those with the will for it will find themselves partially removed from their situation. When that happens, it is as though their entire world is a sky that moves like an ocean of nothing and everything at once."

I can feel their gazes on my, telling me to meet their eyes. I haven't been able to look anyone in the eyes in years, and I can't start now.

"Do you expect to die, Bilbo?"

Thorin's voice is a soft one, and I don't even think of lying.

"I hold no expectations. It' the best way to avoid disappointment." The heavy silence that follows me is for once unwanted. Something clicks within me. It used to be that the silence is what I had to protect me. Now it gets in the way when I’m trying to be something other than a shadow.

The conversation picks up around me, and for once, it takes me with it.

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELP!!! I drew a picture of the Nile Bilbo talks about, but I can't get the "post a picture" button to work! (:()  
> Does anyone know how to post a picture?


	20. Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barrel-rider is not the only thing that amuses Smaug when he and Bilbo talk.

BILBO

It’s cold up here, on the mountain, in front of a door we nearly didn’t find. I’m staring at the gaping hole and wondering if Adrian is still there. Is he still lurking beneath the dragon’s scales, or have I lost my brother forever?

My breath, frosting in the air, is the only thing that tells me I’m not frozen. Far away, they talk, voices muffled. I might have said something back, but it matters not now. I take a step forwards. Then another one. I make myself keep going and going until I snap back to find myself deep in Erebor.

…

I can taste the greed of the people who were once here, the people who have either fled, and learned the true meaning of need, or dead. It’s sunk deep into the walls with their gemstone and precious metal adornments.

I move down a long, dusty passageway, hearing every nonexistent sound I make. When I find myself standing in the threshold of a great sea of gold. Fucking a no wonder Branenwyn set his sights on the mountain. How the hell could he NOT set his sights on a big ass treasure room? It must have been too easy.

I push myself forward, and the metal presses in around me, whispering into the back of my mind to just take a little bit. It won’t take long… promise. Just find precious…

So I cast about, looking for a big white stone. I glance at the sea I have to search through.

Bloody useful, that one.

Mintra, when they wish to be, are damn near impossible to hear. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop my foot from slipping on a gap in the gold and exposing Adrian’s eye. I watch as it opens, that oddly diamond shaped pupil widening and thinning, observing me.

He raises his great head and that long, serpentine body follows it, wrapping partway around me, like Adrian used to do, when Adrian was a foot taller than me and a softie on the inside.

“You do not run, thief…” I need to distract him and buy myself time to get ready. All the old greed in the room has thrown me off, but I concentrate, and begin the song and dance of distracting a dragon.

“Who? Me? Oh no, I’ve simply come to see if the rumors are true… Your Magnificence.”

“Flattery will get you no where, little sparrow.”

“Oh, well, I’ve learned to give credit where credit is due, oh Smaug the Inaccessibly Wealthy.” I can see the Arkenstone now; a glowing, far-too-obvious-to-steal rock sitting on a pile of gold.

“Keep going, _little thief_ , you may just save yourself this day…”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I have heard rumors… a great many rumors…”

“What rumor could drive you to risk your skin?”

“A lot of them, actually… you see, I heard that you are the greatest calamity of the age…” Adrian raises his head and shakes it a little, a prideful cat.

“Not only am I the greatest calamity of the age, little sparrow, I am the last.”

“Well, I also heard that you had… died…” I’m making lies up on the fly, now.

“WHO WOULD DARE ASSUME THAT MY SILENCE IS WEAKNESS!?” I instinctively duck down and raise my hands over my head, palms out, trying to sooth.

“Just one! I swear. Everyone else was rather… afraid of… you, Oh Smaug the Unstoppable…”

“I SHOULD BURN YOU, USELESS CREATURE, FOR EVEN MENTIONING SUCH A FOOLISH THING TO ME!” I feel heat on my head and back and crouch closer to what passes for the ground.

The heat stops, and I look up to see Smaug studying me, just waiting for my next move. I’d say his ego’s got to be the most pretentious thing, but, unfortunately, he lives up to his legend.

“I came here to disprove such a thing, and set to rights your reputation, Oh Smaug, Possessor of Impregnable Legacy…”

“Hmm...” The dragon’s head tilted slightly.

“It is odd, little sparrow, how I draw such a study from you, but you have not given the same chance to me.”

“Yes, but you’re far too magnificent to focus on just me, oh Smaug the Great and Powerful.”

“Tell me what you are, little sparrow. Your life depends on it.” In my head, I can see that strange ring that hurt my head like nothing else. I can see it’s nightmarish light searing the edges of my mind, just begging me to put it on and see how much more of me can get burned before I drop, out of air to breathe. I should have left the damn thing in the tunnels, but now I have it as a reminder of what I should always guard against, of what I’m here for: save Adrian from the burning. It is my dark charm.

“I am... luck-wearer… shadow-walker, a dead man… troll-slayer…”

“Very nice, little sparrow, keep going. Your titles amuse me.”

“I am… tree-climber, shifter, fighter… hider...”

“How are you both one who fights and one who hides, little sparrow?” He has a wicked gleam in his eye, just waiting for the words to dry up in my mouth as the mistake gives me away. It was not a mistake.

“It depends on the day.” I spent fourteen years in hiding, and a year of fighting. Of walking across the nothings and everythings of the world.

“Continue.”

“I am orc-slayer, scout, horse-jumper, barrel-rider…”

“What’s a mintra doing riding barrels and jumping horses, little sparrow?”

“Not getting killed…” He nods, so I don’t hesitate to continue.

“I am dream-seer, star-walker, heart-gazer…”

“A shaman, then.” I nod.

“I am lie-teller, secret-keeper, secret-giver… joke-teller, trap-escaper, illusion-caster…”

“You’re rather young to be a shaman, aren’t you, little sparrow?” Again, I nod, and keep going. His yellow-gold eye shines as Nile’s does, danger contained in twin orbs, the savage gentled somewhat for the space of a few minutes.

“I am heart-loser, fear-user, knowledge-collector…”

“I know much more than most have time to forget.”

“Like what?” The dragon’s eyelid drops, and a dangerous question slips from him.

“Do you doubt me?” I shake my head.

“I… love to learn, Smaug the Bookless Library.” A small quirk of a smile.

“I like that one. I suppose it’s true.”

“I am truth-seeker, I am…”

“Familiar.” He rumbles from deep inside his throat. “Yet I have never once seen you before, somehow you are familiar. So tell me, Secret-Keeper, Illusion-Caster, how you have done this.” I don’t react visibly, but inside me, joy sings because somewhere within Smaug Adrian still dwells. He’s not in control. He’s not even awake, most likely, but he’s there. If he’s there, he can be saved.

He’s drifted closer to me through all this, and he’s so close now, that eye so huge in front of me, that I can’t see anything else but him. I don’t think when I take a step forwards, and nearly flinch at the sound of metal. I had forgotten about the sea of sickly gold beneath my feet. I stretch a hand out- a hand with the five fingers of a hobbit, and not the four of a minotaur.

I realize that I’ve taken off my gloves. In the dim, warm light of Erebor treasure room, I lay my hand against the Smaug’s- Adrian’s- scales.

It is like dying, because I can no longer feel anything else.

It is like love, because for all he is captive, he is there, and his time as Smaug is very nearly up. When I am done, I will have my brother again.

It is far greater than anything I’ve ever felt, and it scares me so much.

I blink. I’ve stepped even closer, and added my other hand. I begin to move towards his neck, slowly, carefully. I cannot do what I have to do beneath his eye. A great rumbling damn near ruins me, but I realize he’s doing something I never expected: purring.

The scales beneath my hands are only the size of my fingertips. The great, protective spines on the back of Smaug’s head has done its job, protecting a truly weak spot. He doesn’t react as I stare at that little nook of weakness. There are two things I can do here: kill him, or save him.

I keep going to his shoulder and, as calmly as I dare, scale the dragon until I’m sitting between his two blades. He’s incredibly broad, but there are grooves in his body where he’s been cut; a recreation from his days in Branenwyn’s care. I bend forwards until both my hands are imbedded in a particularly deep groove. Then I let myself go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!! I was actually really busy this week, so I didn't finish this until today. Originally, I was going to use the original script, but then I realized that would be boring.   
> Tell me what you think about Smaug and Bilbo, please!!


	21. So Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo flies, remembers, falls, and discovers the secret of the Arkenstone.

BILBO

When I truly connect, I forget to breath. He is fire incarnate. The outermost layer of it spits and crackles and fights with me as I press closer, reach deeper. Gradually, the wildness and fighting gets worse until suddenly, I’m gazing at a low flame. This little bit within is the hottest part. It’s also the most beautiful, dangerous thing I’ve ever set eyes upon. Adrian’s soul burns on low, generating enormous amounts of heat and hardly any light.

I step into it.

THRANDUIL

Sometimes, I will hear mortals say something about death. It will be how they’re in a better place, or how it’s a part of life. One old woman once said, “It is like waking up.” I wouldn’t know, of course, what’s it’s like to die. I realized what she meant when I lost my wife.

In the moment I reconnect with Bilbo Baggins and feel the burn of a dormant soul, I understand what that woman meant all over again. I abandon my desk and stride out into the hall to speak to the nearest elf.

“Send the captain of the guard to me.”

THORIN

The thundering picks up suddenly and it doesn’t stop. I nearly fall off the cliff-edge when a dragon that’s supposed to be Bilbo’s brother streaks out of the mountain and towards lake town, fire on his breath and, when I manage to raise my head, Bilbo clinging tightly to its back.

My chest constricts even as shouts fill the mountain top. Bilbo will die, clinging to a dragon. Even though there’s nothing I can do about it, I wish for a moment that it was me, instead of him. What would it be like, riding a creature with gold filling in his scars?

BILBO

I flew once before, higher than this, and all I remember was the distance. An incredible distance had passed below my own wings, and it had taken nothing to get halfway to the shire. Then Nile brought me down and kept me there until Branenwyn’s magic had faded, and I never flew again.

I dreamt of it. I had nightmares about it, but I never did fly. And now here I am, fighting fire with fire, trying to stoke the low heat into an inferno that forces away the artificial stuff surrounding Adrian’s soul.

As lake town draws near, Adrian bucks like a wild thing, roars filling the air as he tries to dislodge me, wings beating, fangs fully extended. He twists and spins and shakes and kicks but he cannot dislodge me. It feels as though he is everywhere, but I know not to let go, for all it feels as though I cannot fall.

It’s so warm in here, and I suddenly remember a day with Nile. It was average, but it was extraordinary as well.

…

_Bilbo lay on the furs, for the first time aware of their softness. He can feel his chest rise and fall, he can feel a creature lifting him up and into his arms. He can feel it all, and it makes him cry._

_“Why cry, little sparrow?” Bilbo still can’t hear, but he can feel the rumbling of his chest. He clutches at the big hand that wipes away his tears._

_“I understand.” Then the sun hits Bilbo, and it is amazing. He strains upwards for it, and feels his own chest shake in a sob. He can feel again. He won’t be stuck, floating in the nothing that succeeded his mad flight. He’ll get out, starting with the feeling of sun on his skin._

_They stayed there for hours, as Nile had often done when Bilbo couldn’t feel it, but this time, Bilbo did not stop crying throughout the afternoon. He doesn’t stop when fire heated his fur in the evening. He doesn’t stop until Nile lay with Bilbo tucked to his chest, and the mintra too deeply asleep to continue._

_For the first time in weeks, Bilbo has hope._

__

…

As lake town draws on the horizon, the flames respond to my pulling. At last, my efforts begin to pay off. I wrap the outer layers around myself and consume the rest, disrupting the perfect blanket of protection. I keep going when my body begins to hurt. I keep going when my arms get weak, I keep going and going until my hands loosen just a hair too much, and I catch myself just above the scratching range of Adrian’s claws, right above a limb clutched around the Arkenstone.

I keep pulling at those outer layers and spreading those hairline fractures, and slowly slip down his arm, towards death. Upside down, damn near burned alive, I can see that glowing rock, just barely held, the cage the dragon had made for it was so gentle.

I promised Thorin an Arkenstone. So I wait until I’m close enough and my vision is fading in and out of focus so much that there’s more than one stone and more than one hand. Quickly, I reach out and snatch the stone…

It makes me scream and lose my hold as I plummet down, down, down, into the lake of Laketown.

…

The shock of the cold water awakens me as I sit up and cough my lungs out, drowning with the air around me. I really hate it. I push myself up and realize that I’m chest deep sitting in the edge of the lake. I just barely drag myself to shore before I collapse, shivering, freezing, damn near dying.

Pain makes me look at my hand. A large, circular burn marks it. What calm I have drains away. Only black magic leaves a mark like this. It is the final stone in a wall of failure. I failed on both fronts. I lost the arkenstone and failed Thorin. I lost hold on Branenwyn’s magic and failed Adrian. I look at the mountain.

The Arkenstone is, in fact, an ancient stone of black magic. Nile used to tell me stories about stones like this.

The story he had was of a big, young man who worked hard everyday to put food the family’s collective stomach. One day, he found a treasure chest of gold and other valuable things. He opens it, and among the other things is a single white stone.

Instead of using it to get his family to a better place, he hid it under a bridge and takes it out whenever he’s there on his own. Eventually, he took to murdering whoever crossed the bridge.

I would not cross the bridge in Hobbiton for three years, think there was a troll under it.

This stone is no different than the stone in the fairy tale. It will drive Thorin mad just as it drew his forefathers mad. I stand. I have to go back to the mountain. The damage has already begun. I will not let Thorin become the troll under the bridge.

 


	22. Tug of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo finds himself morally surrounded on all sides, and chooses to address his problem from a different angle.

BILBO

There is but one advantage to everyone in the mountain falling to gold lust: no one notices things anymore. For instance, Oin didn’t notice the fact that my glove bulges slightly with hidden bandages and no one notices that I’ve all but stopped using it.

Day after day, they sift through the gold, looking for a stone that is long lost. I avoid them now, because the metal’s all they talk about. They don’t notice that I’ve gotten sicker than I ever was on our journey. They don’t notice that we’re all hungry. They don’t notice that we’re all exhausted. I watch them all and curse myself. The look in Thorin’s eyes- all over his face, really- is one I’ve been seeing since the stay at Beorn’s. It makes me so sad to watch Thorin look for something only Adrian knows the location of.

Watch him, I do, in spite of the hollow feeling. Maybe, if that cursed birthright is gone long enough, the sickness will lift. Maybe, if he heeds the words of Thranduil and of Bard, me and mine will be saved. As it is, we wait out an army- a well fed army with plenty of provisions- in foolishness.

Thorin sifts through the gold. I sift through my thoughts.

Nile once laid bare the essentials of greed and all things evil. He said, “Time is currency. Currency is power. Power corrupts easily.” If it isn’t one, it’s the other. We spend time in a mountain of currency, unresistant to the power of a mad king.

I can see power in its every form. It’s all power. Even breathing. I need to breathe to live. I might just trade anything to breathe again. Even the little things are power. I’m all power. I have the power to stop the madness, but it will cost Thorin his life at the most and at the least, a different kind of sanity.

The question, then, in light of Nile’s lesson, is this: do I hold my tongue and watch the drama play out, or do I step in and make the madness rear its head, entice it to fight me, and crush it where it stands?

The deepest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of a moral crisis.

Is it really that simple when just letting things happen is, in fact, saving Thorin from a madness he won’t recover from? It’s a gentler thing, yes, but no less painful. Am I really just sitting here when I am, in fact, once more keeping mum?

Would telling the truth be better (it was before)? He would hunt down Adrian, and likely wouldn’t leave him alive, in order to regain the Arkenstone. Can I sacrifice my brother to my leader in order to save not only my people’s insanity but my own peace of mind? No. That’s one thing I can’t, won’t, do.

Which madness, though? The gold sickness will make him lash out at everyone and everything, should he lose control. The insanity that will follow purging Thorin Oakenshield will make him lash out at himself. For the rest of his life, with no respite. It would not be a choice he made. It would be a choice I made. It is not my right to do such a thing.

I cannot purge Thorin, and I cannot reveal the Arkenstone’s whereabouts, and he will not bend to my will, so he will keep sifting through his damnation along with everyone else in order to find what he’s looking for. Something that’s not there.

I cannot stop running these things back and forth through my head. When I finally sleep at the foot of  a bare wall, I cannot help but dream.

…

He didn’t expect the fairy to still be alive. Her cage had been broken, and she gone. That is how he had found Adrian’s room, right before Adrian went to Erebor. Bilbo had thought her dead and he had grieved. So imagine his delight when a little wooden fairy sat on his furry thigh and looked up at him with her petite face. She could curl up inside a flower, she’s that small.

But here she is, alive and well, fluttering just above his fur. Swiftly, she grows in size and wrapped her arms around Bilbo, who could not stop his tears from flowing. He sniffed her and made sure that this is definitely the fairy that had shown him the cage with the pretense of drowning him.

A low, rumbling growl breaks their peace, and the pair turn to Nile. Bilbo still can’t see, but he can hear and smell and feel well enough, so he doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth.

“She’s my friend.” Instantly, the growling stops as the huge, dark minotaur moves close and runs a thick four fingered hand over Bilbo’s face.

“Very well.” A week later, Bilbo’s sight finally came back, and he began to learn magic from Anya. It hurt- it always did. It took thirteen days for Nile to explain this pain to Bilbo.

“You know what Branenwyn does with his magic.” Bilbo nods. He knows it intimately.

“What he does… destroys things that should come naturally. They grow back, but it will always hurt to use your magic, and you probably won’t gain an Animal shift.” Nile said quietly to the securely cuddled Bilbo.

The sadness in Bilbo’s eyes is enough to break Nile’s heart. He opens his mouth to say something- anything- but Bilbo just sits there, relaxed into his side. He closes it again and moves them back to the fire in their cave.

Bilbo, turned to face Nile’s chest, mumbles sleepily, and Nile understands exactly what he said.

“I won’t need an animal shift because you’re with me.” Nile blinks. He won’t be here forever, but lets Bilbo think that. He’ll realize that little fact or forget the conversation soon enough. Nile dare not voice his thoughts aloud.

You don’t want it now, but you will. When you finally realize what exactly Branenwyn took from you, you’ll hunt him down to the ends of the earth, should you not be stopped.

…

Thorin’s wolf tail swishes back and forth slowly, majestic in all its glory. I watch from my shadowy corner, thoughts still turning, stomach raw and unfilled, and I know I have to do something.

The orcs will be here in three days. Either Thorin comes to his senses, or we all die of starvation. Then it hits me. I don’t need Thorin to come to his senses. I need to change the circumstances.

I go to the wall but stand out of sight. The lake felt as bad as the forest had. Power is currency. Currency is power. I step in doors, slightly dizzy and a bit miffed at the hollowness of my stomach. I can eat later.

The time to plot is gone. Now is the time to prepare.

…

“No.” Bard’s flat reply is expected. I thought he would at least listen to what I have to say before denying me.

“The lake isn’t sick, boy. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” I keep my face carefully neutral.

“The lake is sick. It’s just not sick enough for you to see.” I go through the trouble of standing my ground and not shuffling my hooves, which Bard has been glaring at the entire time we’ve been in the same room. It’s making me self-conscious.

“I fish in that lake every day. My livelihood comes and goes with it’s mood. I know the state of the Lake’s health.”

“I know it’s future. The Mirkwood isn’t the only thing sickening. It’s just farther along.” I say this with the quiet certainty I feel whenever I make a decision to use my powers.

When Nile was guiding me through the pain of being near others aside from him and Anya, I had once told him I regretted seeing people stripped raw and for what they really were (I’d looked a poor man in the eye). In return he had settled us both in front of the fire of our shared room and told me what is done is done, and if I cannot stand by my decisions with the solidity needed to see results, then I had no business using power at all. It may have been harsh (it probably was) but it was something I needed to learn and learn quickly.

All the things I’ve been turning over in my head, all the ways I’ve laid these cards, all the twists and angles I’ve looked at in this kaleidoscope of a life of mine will be useless if I don’t stick to the decision I’ve made. So it’s with certainty that I tell Bard and Thranduil of my trade off.

“Your lake,” I say to Bard before I affix my gaze to Thranduil’s jaw, “and your forest both have but a decade left. As it goes, so will you. The orcs will be here in three days. Fight them as if it is your own home at stake, and you’ll find both of your lands at the height of it’s productivity.”

“If either of us refuses?” Bard asks, eyes singing in suspicion. This may be a deal I’m trying to strike, but he recognizes how easily this could turn into being strong-armed.

“Then I do nothing. It will be as it is now.”

“How do you intend to carry all this out?” Thranduil’s head cocks to the side. Eyes far too inquisitive.

“I’ve been gone too long. I need to let myself be seen, then I will ride for Laketown. I won’t be able to deal with the Mirkwood until after the battle, but I will get there as soon as possible. A hint of amusement and wariness crosses the elven king’s face.

“How do I know you’ll actually carry out this promise of yours?” I slip my hand into my pocket.

“A minotaur’s word is his everything. However…” I pull the necklace I had removed and cleaned earlier. It’s nothing expensive- the rock the chain and pendant is carved from comes from massive veins of the stuff beneath my homeland-, but personally valuable. Thranduil, of course, sees this when I hold it up in front of my face and between the two of us. The stone feather swings gently.

“A token of my honesty, to be returned on the day of our deal’s completion, should there be a deal.”

“That’s all fine and well, minotaur, but what proof will I have that Laketown is secure?” Thranduil speaks up before I can.

“I will tell you. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve dealt with Master Baggins’... particular brand of magic.” If Bard picks up on the indication of my run in with the Elven king, he doesn't show it, only nods and settles back. I watch the space next to Thranduil’s head until the Elven king steps forward, bends down, and takes the pendent.

“As you wish.” I nod, bow at the waist and to the waist, then stride out of the tent. I don't stop until I reach the mountain and slip back in by climbing the rope I've attached to a balcony. I can feel the weight of my necklace's absence. It is the one and only gift Nile gave to me that wasn't a necessity, and it's one of the only cultural things I have of my homeland.

For a moment, I close my eyes and remind myself of the promise I made to myself on the day I set foot outside Nile's home, the big minotaur at my side, to find a people only Nile knew of. This necklace is, in fact, his parting gift. He told me to make a wish on it, and to never let that wish go. I wished to one day return home to the mother I had to leave when grief took hold and wouldn't let go. I wished to run in a pack of those my own age, as I had done before my father's death and before I realized what Branenwyn was really about. One day, I will walk the earth of my home. One day.

One day, I'll see Nile again, and I'll be able to make memories past the last one of his dark form fading as he sent me stumbling, chilled to the bone, up to the round door of Bag End. He was there, shadowing me for days, making sure he wasn't mistaken. Then he was gone.

I let out a quiet sigh. Then I push myself upright from where I had leaned against the stone railing and pressed a hand against the base of my throat, where the necklace had lain. I've appearances to keep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, then! There it is! Let me know what you think!


	23. By Halves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo completes the first half of his deal, and he remembers Adrian.

BILBO

However much I used everyone’s inattention to my own advantage, it still bites that not a single dwarrow out of the thirteen here realized I was gone. I back away from the yawing entrance to the large chamber everyone is camping in, and consider just heading for Laketown now, while I know I won’t be missed.

Instead, I step back and quietly lay down to sleep, still hungry. Food is running in short supply, though, and minotaurs are better at going without it than dwarrows. I curl up into a ball and try to sleep, but there’s far too much electricity running through me for me to just relax.

In the end, the clink of useless coins keeps me awake all night.

…

I slip out from a different balcony this time, and don’t enter the camp of the men and elves. The adrenaline runs through my veins as I, before the crack of dawn, set out to complete my part of the bargain.

…

The lake of Laketown is, indeed, dying, and it makes me sick to wade back into it. Waist deep, I begin to draw the poison out and think of Adrian.

…

_They haven’t a thing in common, when they meet for the first time. Adrian is older, his sable coat longer with winter upon the both of them. As they sit in their shared room, Adrian watches the little golden creature shiver in his sleep in the dead of night. By the light of the moon, the both of them are silver._

_Branenwyn is busy (with what, Adrian doesn’t know) and told Adrian to watch The Brat. So he sits against the wall, watching as The Brat shivers. Adrian sighs at The Brat's sleep and climbs into the bed, curling around The Brat, as he was going to do from the beginning (he just didn’t know it)._

_Dawn calls with two warm mintra, and a slightly less hardened heart. The first laid awake all night, happy that his older brother likes him now._

__

…

I work my way back to dry land and heave what bile’s in my stomach onto the shore. That was foul, but it is done. For now I just need sleep. I glance at the stallion I had, uh, borrowed from the elven camp.

I’ll need its help to get anywhere. I stretch one hand out and remain on my knees while the proud creature clops up to me, it’s nose dipping to rest it’s cheek in my hand. Then I’m rising, slipping my way to its flank as it kneels for me to slip onto its back.

It takes a bit of time, but I’m riding fever sick back to the camp. It takes hours, and the late night moon slips low in the sky, it’s tongues of silver retracting as I reach the elven camp.

I walk through it, the beautiful sable horse trailing behind me calmly. I know I’m being watched, knowing that at any moment Thranduil could change his mind about me and instead use me as a hostage. I’m sick enough for that to work.

Two guards (one elven, and one human, both suspicious and armed) stop me at the tent where both Thranduil and Bard reside. I tip my head back so they can see my face and give them my most condescending look.

“I was here before.”

“Not on our watch.”

“Does it look like I care?” I haven’t the time to deal with this shit.

“Well it-”

“Thank you, Aaronwan*. Come, Bilbo.” Thranduil says from behind his guards.

I move past them and into the tent, tale flicking. I notice something. Thranduil’s animal trait is not showing. The elf had a jaguar as his second from. The human had been a badger, and Bard himself was an otter. Thranduil, however, remains one hundred percent in his Upright form. Whatever.  I don’t really give a fuck at this point.

I wait to speak until Thranduil has taken up residence in a vacated chair, opposite of Bard, who watches me in stony silence. I gaze at the bruises underneath his eyes and stand up straight.

“Well, minotaur?” He asks, his exhaustion making him just as crotchety as I feel.

“It is done.” Bard looks to Thranduil, who nods his perfect blond head like the uptight little bastard he is.

“He tells the truth,” Thranduil intones, and I barely wait for his nod before I bow, straighten, turn and, with a flick of my tale, exit the tent.

…

I barely make it up the rope and back to my bed roll. I don’t even spare a thought for my stomach; I’m that tired. I have never been more grateful to step into the world of dreams, where sometimes heaven and hell dance hand in hand through my mind.

…

Yelling awakens me, and I realize that Thorin, my leader, a man I would follow anywhere, has finally butted heads one time too many with Thranduil and Bard. Deal or no, there’s nothing to stop Thranduil from leaving. All he has to do is leave the pendant. I push myself up and go running to the fire.

It’s funny, really, how fire haunts the dreams of so many, yet I go running to its incarnate. I brace myself. In its untamed, enraged form, fire burns everything and everyone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Aaronwan is pronounced Air-un-wane  
> Happy Valentines Day! That's an ironic thing to say, considering my plans for this story.


	24. Temper, Temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo encounters a hitch in his plans, loses control of his temper, and does a little thinking.

BILBO

It takes but a moment to strap my weapons on.

The air has a bite to it that I had been too numb to feel last night. Fall is passing us by, and it heralds winter. There’s so much yelling and screaming up here, and I’m so detached. Then I hear the word. Arkenstone.

Aule’s balls, Thorin believes the elves have it. No. No no no this can’t end on this note. I take a step forwards, hoping that all I’ve told Thorin will be enough, hoping that a year of dealing with each other’s shit will be enough to bring him down from the cliff he’s standing on. My mouth’s open before I can think it through.

“Wait, Thorin!” I yell out, and it pains me when he turns to me and, right before I drop my gaze lower, the madness shines bright and clear.

“What is it, halfling?” He hasn’t called me that since the goblin caves.

“The dragon has the Arkenstone!” He moves away from the edge of yet another balcony and moves towards me, presence menacing. When he’s standing less than a foot away, his voice is deadly calm.

“And why, pray tell, did you forget to mention that the damn dragon has my heirloom?” I feel like shrinking in my skin as I work my glove off my hand.

“It’s black magic! The Arkenstone is. I had my hand around it and it burned me. That’s how I fell off Smaug in the first place.” I hold my hand up for him to see. The burn is just as raw as it was when I acquired it. It’s in the shape of a rock and covers most of my hand. Thorin’s wolf ears flick back and forth, tail making a slow pass behind him. His big hand engulfs mine, and for just a second, I think it’s all going to be alright. Then it’s not.

“You gave it to them, didn’t you?” When he says it, his voice is deceptively gentle, almost understanding in it’s quietness. I’m not fooled. I take half a step backwards before his grip is vice like, holding me in front of him.

“No, I didn’t.” There’s desperation in the back of my throat now. A snarl ripples over Thorin’s face.

“You did.” Then I’m being hauled forwards and suddenly, there’s no ground beneath my hooves, and I can’t breathe. I’m dangling over empty air. I’m hard to kill, but a fall like this one will do the trick. I’m clinging to his gauntlet covered hand, scared that he’ll really drop me, trying not to choke to death.

In the haze of fear and pain, I have a moment of clarity.

…

_The winter had gently engulfed the land when Nile arrived with Bilbo on his back, clinging to his dreadlocks. The minotaur stands up on a hill overlooking all of Hobbiton. The lights of evening fires stand out like soft fireflies, beckoning the two of them._

_One hobbit hole in particular would be especially welcoming. He had left Bilbo with Ania to seek out people who would teach his young companion to love and be loved as fiercely as Nile had taught him to fight._

_As he pulls Bilbo from the warmth of his sleep, the mintra blinks sleepily and turns his furry face up to Nile._

_“We’re here.” He kneels and sets the little creature down in the snow, waking up a bit._

_“I’ll have to leave you soon, but I’m sending you to good hands. They’ll teach you things I can’t, and when you’re old enough, I’ll come for you, and the both of us will get your brother when you’re old enough._

_A soft mumble comes from Bilbo._

_“Want him now.”_

_“I know, but you have to wait. Remember, Little Sparrow, I’ll come for you, when you’re ready. Don’t leave with anyone else. Then he had sent Bilbo across the landscape, shadowing him quietly until the child had toddled up to one door in particular. The round thing had opened, and Bilbo had been drawn inside._

_Twelve years after the fact, Bilbo disobeyed Nile for the first time and followed them across the misty mountains and towards his brother._

__

…

Nile had been right. I should never have left without him, and it makes me angry. I’m so very angry because I’m just trying to help. I failed my brother. I failed Thorin, and I just want to see him walk sanely again. No one has any goddamn right to tell me what the fuck I did and didn’t do.

For the first time, I tip my gaze up just a bit higher, and look Thorin in the eye, lips pulled back, anger burning there as I see clearly now the extent of his madness.

“Foolish bastard! Your rock is gone! You want it back? Drain the whole sea! I don’t give a fuck about your Arkenpebble and you have no right to accuse me of something I would not possess to save my life!” My voice has dropped a full octave, and it has the strange resonance of a fully trained shaman.

They’re shouting behind us, and suddenly, I’m pulled back and dropped onto the ledge.

“Leave, traitor.” A rope is brought forwards, and they go to anchor it around one of the short stone pillars holding up the ledge of the balcony. I grab it before Ori can finish.

“Gladly.” I tie the rope myself, but ignore the basket meant to lower me. I’m not fucking property. Not now, never again. I hop up onto the ledge and look back at the Company; my company. They were supposed to be my family. They were supposed to be my friends and confidants. Yet, they stand there. Nile taught me something once, and it’s been the reason why I stayed, even when i wasn’t wanted. I lift my chin and stare just over their heads.

“The deepest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of a moral crises.” Then I jump. For a moment, I’m in free fall. I could just let go, and it’d be over. But no, I have a deal to keep. Thorin might be insane, but I’m not disloyal. The rope runs out six feet above the ground. I let myself drop the rest of the way.

I move towards the camp and look Thranduil in the eyes, letting him see my fury. He couldn’t have kept his fucking mouth shut for five fucking minutes? Now Thorin hates me. I refuse to acknowledge the fact that it makes my heart ache. I do what I’ve been doing for years; withdraw.

It’s with a cold shoulder that I speak with Thranduil and Bard (yes, things will go as planned) I don’t even wish to speak with Gandalf. It gets old when everytime my heart breaks, there’s no one there, but it’s fine to pick up the pieces.

It is only when I’m alone and laying on a cot in a tent that I allow myself to acknowledge the fact that I’m just as bad as everyone else; still following Thorin, even though he hates me, now. By all rights, I should call off the deal with Thranduil and release Bard of his promise. I should run far away from this all. Instead I’m resting for a battle no more than fourteen hours away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next chapter won't be a chapter but a drawing of Nile, who keeps popping up into Bilbo's memories. I've made the picture too big, though, so I'll have to downsize it if I want to post.


	25. Nile in the (permanent sharpie) flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I drew Nile. End of summary.

">

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I promised in the last chapter, this character is Nile. I'm the one who drew it, so if you all could tell me what you think, I'd be happy...


	26. The Reign of Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has a strange reaction to battle and Kili gets to experience it. They all fight, and one of them doesn't make it. Bilbo keeps the tail end of his promise to Thranduil.

Blood

Gore

Sweat

Vomit

Roars

Beheadings

Be-limb-ings

Death

It all washes over me in a haze of bodies and yelling as an ancient conflict comes to a head as men, dwarves (my dwarves and their companions) and elves (fucking Thranduil) fight to defend a sick mountain. I feel a thread of adrenaline fueled giddiness.

I run around like a goddamn chicken, slicing the backs of knees, changing the minute tide as I go. Giant rocks fly over my head. Rusty, poisonous orcan weapons swing at me, a muddied drop of gold in a sea of muted color.

Red and black blood mix together on the earthen ground as I encounter damn near everyone of the dwarves I had loved like family. I push myself through the battle, and while it hurts like a bitch to make it across the grounds of mud and death, I do it anyways, because there’s but one thing that has to happen if this is all going to be worth it: the sickness must fall.

My chest hurts from grief when I see Fili lying there, Kili standing above him, all but fully shifted into his fox form. His teeth are the jagged fangs. There’s blood on them, along with gore. Someone’s been feral.I run to them, relieving an orc of his lower half as I do. He’s surprised to find me at his back. He probably thinks I abandoned them.

“Why?!” I tilt my head enough to bring him into my peripheral while the both of us work to protect Fili. “I thought you hated us all!” I let out a laugh.

“I should hate you all! Fortunately for you lot of troll turds, hate leads to revenge! Minotaurs fall prey to revenge the way you fall prey to gold, Magpie!”

“I’m not a magpie!” Kili lunges and falls back, lunges and dodges, then falls back.

“You spent the entirety of our journey filching things for shits and giggles! You are a magpie!” Kili almost sounds affronted, and I’m struck by how strange it is to have such an ordinary conversation in the middle of a battlefield.

“I put them back!”

“Only to take them again!” Strike, twist, feint, fall back. Strike, feint, lunge, feint, fall back.

“We need to move him! Can it be done?!” Kili shouts to me as he continues with decades of training. I drop to my knees as Kili gets even more ferocious, always landing his blows in the best spots, never leaving for more than a moment.

Fili’s wound is deep, but with his hand clamped over it, he should make it. That’s too much of a maybe, though. I place his hands back over his stomach and stand up.

“Switch!” As Kili falls back to me, I lunge forwards and take the oncoming orc in the chest as Kili sweeps up his brother. The three of us our making our way over to a rocky outcropping with a small cave (or a large hole, really) underneath the overhang. Kili sets him down while I play guard duty.

“Switch!” It’s something we worked on during our year-long trek. I fix Fili so that even if he passes out, his weight will slow the bleeding. It’s a stomach wound, of course, and those take a long time to bleed out. I fix his hands the way I want them and lay my own hand against his cheek.

“Fili. Fili look at me.” With difficulty, those eyes find mine, and his mouth opens to speak.

“Thought you… went.”

“You thought right. I just came back. Listen, I need you to stay awake. Talk to yourself. Talk to your imaginary friends. Just don’t go to sleep, yeah? Don’t leave us.”

“Us?”

“Your brother’s giving us a bit of time. Just stay awake, okay?” An affirmative grunt is all I get, and it’s all I need before I’m back with Kili, giving him time to duck inside to try and convince his brother that things are going to be okay. These boys should never have seen battle.

It is here that I make my mistake. As I think of this, I turn just a bit too far and ram an orc through the heart with my sword, effectively opening up my right side to attack. The rusty, poisonous blade damn near gets in a deep, diagonal swipe.

Then there’s a body flying, and I realize, as the brave creature lands at my feet, that it is Bofur, who is far kinder than any dwarf ought to be. He’s been cut across the chest, tearing armor and flesh, bone and muscle, until the very tip cuts into a beating heart. For a moment, I don’t realize that Bofur’s not going to make it. Then I do.

A massive roar rumbles out from my chest as I charge the orc who killed my friend. For a moment he’s far too tall, then his knees have been cut and as he falls, I grab his disgusting head between my hands and twist as far to the left as I possibly can. The snap ends the danger.

“Kili!” I yell as I fall back and kneel next to my still dying friend. My companion. My family. I haven’t the time to do the whole thing, but I can do the most important part. I touch my fist, fingers first, to my chin, thumb across my mouth. Then I touch my own heart, hand twisted so that the back of my hand is facing up. Then, one hand on either side of his head, I lean over and rest my forehead against his and speak the words to undo the foul thing I said to him before the battle.

“Deur alles wat lewe, vrede.” By all that lives, peace. Bofur closes his eyes, and his mauled heart stops beating. I rise and turn back to the battle. For a moment, all is as it never should be, and then the tide shifts.

Something deep and protective boils up from the well of my mind. It trails an abstract mist of hot anger and cold efficiency. I let it have its way. I’ve no need of sanity now.

…

THORIN

There’s only one creature who would roar like that. Even though I’ve never heard it or of it, I recognize it to be a grieving roar. It shakes my head and dislodges the addiction and need for gold I’ve felt there but been unable to fight. It sharpens my reflexes and slows the fight down. When Azog swings his mact, Orcrist swings up betwixt hand and blade, so that the foul thing is cleaved in two. I kick it away and turn back to face Azog, half shifted into my wolf form.

I give him a smile, and something tells me that Azog, without his mace, doesn’t stand a chance with the roar of a grieving minotaur in his ear and his weapon lacking a handle. Our eyes meet over blood and death around us, and black speech pours from his mouth. I charge after him, but something hits the side of my head, and I am no more.

…

THRANDUIL

The line of Durin is lucky. Bofur is not. I stand close by as they set his body on the stretcher and take him away. Not ten feet from where he fell, Prince Fili is breathing around a stomach wound, and his brother clutching an injured thigh. Just by looking at them, I know they will live. It will be a painful thing to recover from, but they will live.

I look towards the Mirkwood. They will live, and their home will live. Soon, so will mine.  

THORIN

“Where is he?” I ask from where I’m laying. I’ve just woken, and Bilbo might be dying. I need to know he’s alright. Oin tilts his head at me.  
“Not here. You know you could have gotten yourself killed, right?”

“Of course I know that. But I still don’t know where he is.”

“And you won’t until you let me treat you. Now sit. DOWN!” Oin’s voice, in typical doctor fashion, is not one to be messed with. So I sit. That doesn't change the fact that I heard Bilbo. I know he fought. I need to find him.

“I bet the elf knows.”

“Your nephews are alive because of “the elf” so if you would please STAY SEATED!” I sit down again. It’s not my fault I got knocked out and then defended by an eagle. Even so, I know better than to piss of Oin.

I still need to find Bilbo. I have much to atone for.

…

BILBO

Black magic is the burn of a fever. And it is a fever I entice into me. It is an insidious thing that I pull from the whole of Mirkwood. It is a fever I use to defeat the grieving in my heart because I am done with it all.

I need to sit and rest for a while because I just lost my friend and I don’t intend to start to the uphill battle to not be swept away.

Grief is an ocean, and I feel I’ve been caught in the riptide.

So I draw the fever in and let it eat me alive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! We have one left! After that, I'm going to start my next piece in this series while writing my other works. Thank you all for reading and commenting/ kudoing. You're all amazing.


	27. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after.

THRANDUIL

He sits on the edge of a cliff, sad eyes watching the abyss beyond, legs dangling into more of the same. His posture is submissive, as is the way his hands hold a book in his lap. Thranduil, behind him, recognizes the tiny golden sun- now a little washed out in the Twilight of Bilbo’s mind- for what he is: tired.

He sits down next to Bilbo and dangles his legs over as well. The silence stretches an age and a single second before Thranduil dares to comment on the book Bilbo’s reading.

“A bit odd, isn’t it?” Bilbo nods. Thranduil doesn’t think Bilbo knows what he’s reading about; the images in the picture book are blurred, and the words are written in a script neither can read. So they simply sit there, looking at pictures they can’t make out.

“I’m trying to decide whether it’s easier to go back or go forwards.” Thranduil knows the precarious position Bilbo’s in. So for the time being, he does what he’s been doing.

“Why go either way? It’s fine to rest for a little longer.” Bilbo nods and goes back to his picture book. He could decide another day. There isn’t a rush (there used to be).

KILI

The funeral for Bofur was the most honorable Thorin could make it. It didn’t ease the aching in everyone’s heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter!


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